when I tuck her in, sheets tight under her chin,
pillows fluffed three times wide ways and long ways
(we just might have a type A child yet!)
I notice her eyes. wet, round dinner plates.
there's nothing I need to ask. she has nothing to say.
nothing that hasn't been said in the glances we
exchange over a teddy bear we clutch,
arms slowly ripping from the seams.
she grabs my hand and squeezes,
tighter than I did when she was born.
just five years ago, I screamed,
tossed back my head, sweaty hair
clinging to my scalp like soggy noodles.
the doctor held her up, Simba style.
I closed my eyes gently and slept through the trumpets.
now we're here, in this bed, in this fear
that neither of us can speak.
when her eyelids befriend her cheeks,
and the dinosaur music box hits its last run,
I creep to the door, edging one creak against another;
then I hear it,
barely a whisper, but loud and clear:
*why do the good guys have to die?
This is how I breathe when I can't scream.
