She sleeps on the side
her heart is on —
sleeps facing the sun
that juts through our window
earlier and earlier. In the belly
of the sky the sun kicks
and cries. My wife
has begun to wear the huge
clothes of inmates, smuggling you
inside her — son
or daughter. I bring her
crackers and water.
Wardens of each other,
in the precincts
of unsteady sleep, we drift
off curled
like you are, listening
to the night breathe.
Source: www.nytimes.com/2015/03/15/magazine/starting-to-show.html?_r=0, published 13 March 2015.
