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This morning we were sick together.
I heard you at five
stepping down the last four wooden steps in the dark,
barefoot and concerned,
dragging your striped blanket.

Something wasn’t right.
You knew it.

You crawled in bed beside me,
buried the fevered weight of your forehead
into the white softs of my inner arms,
and sighed.

I felt your muscles relax.
I breathed through the sweet sweat of your hair
and wrapped your fears about
with slow time.

With the room turning round,
I was too weak to lift my own head.
I didn’t want you to know that.
A mother should be strong with remedies.

Instead, I was still while you slept.
I held you.
We were frail together and close.

There are prayers a mother composes in strength,
though her truest are made from weakness.

“Father,
work what I would
but cannot.”