by CL Bledsoe
After you were born, I understood
why my mother never closed doors.
Darkness conveys sound more effectively
than the day; my dreams have been
of your breath, regular and small.
This is my sleep, hearing you sleep.
In the mornings, you give your cereal
to the crows. They bring you cast off
trinkets, misplaced detritus. Likewise,
the squirrels you give nuts and seeds to
bring you flowers, bits of bark
with unusual hues. This, too, is love.
Your bed, an ark of stuffed animals,
the odd species dropping off when you
toss and turn. Many times, when I can’t sleep,
I retrieve them before you grow restless.
If I closed the door behind me, you might
hear it and wake, I might find, once closed,
it will never open again.