In the dark before we are fully awake
I hold my son on the couch.
He curls his long thin limbs
into my familiar lap, his body
startlingly warm and soft
and surprisingly light, though
he gives me all his weight.
No, I do not want to let go of this,
and I hold him here, though there
are lunches to make, hold him
though there is snow to shovel,
hold him though my arm falls asleep,
though the clock ticks toward school
and work and dawn. I am well aware
there are other things I long to hold,
impossible things, like his happiness,
his security, his certainty that he is beloved,
long even to hold onto my idea that I
am a good mother, that I will never
let him down. Though I know I do.
Oh love, is that you,
shaking my body?