Photo by Bastien Jaillot on UnsplashSelf-Portrait as Auntie
As the moon rises, I lift him from the crib, his
fingers curling around my hair, pulled
by the whims
of his dreams.
My feet in soft shag, he swathes
my swaying hips,
lays his head on my chest.
Humming Moonlight Sonata,
I press my lips to his cradle cap. The moon
is high as I
(knowing soon
he will rise, seek my side)
lay him down again.
I sweep hair from his eyes, nibble
the tip of his ear, and revel in
his smile, projected from his nighttime palace.
Door cracked, I hear him find the crib’s edge,
pull himself to stand
before his cry breaks midnight hush.
My personal call to prayer. We repeat:
sleeping child, sleepless caregiver,
midnight snack maker, monster under the bed
slayer. Permanently stained purveyor
of wooden blocks and perpetual peeker
of those hidden boos.
I lift him from the crib.
The moon sets.