You sleep fretfully, stirring up the buttermilk
air. It’s been through your lungs and mine. 

You’re grasping and grasping, with hands
plump and rosy. For hours you’d screamed,
straining and messing my hair until exhausted. 

I notice us in the windowpane and let my neck
slacken and chin fall forward. 

A mahogany plaque the size of a picture book
hangs above us: Our Lady and her tender
smile and the sweet weight in the crook of her
arm. My whole life I have wondered at the
graceful slope of her neck—how a living
warmth radiates from the wood’s luster.

You’re warm also. Heat and dampness
emanate from the pastel cotton of your
clothing. Sweat from your writhing against the
hesitancy in my embrace.

I notice I’m not yet able to hold my own
head weight, how I totter and
stare at strangers. 

Please hire Sophia McNamara to look after your children. Interested parties should contact thenassauweekly@gmail.com.