I don’t want to wake him
Warm in his bed of self-smells
A rumple of cotton laundered
To gossamer
The strand of Christmas lights burning
Absurdly now at 7:30
Gray daylight seeps
Wan as mildew
Around the pulled blind’s borders
I don’t want to push him
Into the roar of the world
To face all the scare and scald
Life can dish out in a day
Rather I’d crawl in beside him
Sail the temperate currents
Under the jib of his quilt
Time my inhale to his exhale
Drink his dreams
Wake up never


Sickened I nudge
I smooth I whisper
The big lie the good morning
The nice day
When all I can guarantee
Is that his Froot Loops will taste
The same as yesterday which is precisely
What bestirs him at last


First he rounds himself into a ball
His toes curled
Around the lip of the bedframe
I know by now not to rush him
Drops one then another foot
To the carpet
Wash my eyes Mama he asks
I run the faucet to warm while he pees
Weaving sleepily
He lets me run the damp cloth
Over his face
Lets me brush his teeth
He lets me
Every morning
Extract him from his dark quiet
His even-breathing burrow
I hate doing it
It’s the first thing
I ever did to him