after two ***** cranberries
Errol burst into tears.
He began with an aching whimper,
and my little self boiled with indignation,
this "how dare you take my time--this is my time"--
my time to watch pause-able movies, and read endless Facebook posts.
Secondly, after a tiny moaning cry
I run into the room
and in the black find him
to pluck him from his sad dreams.
There is the happiness
the thing those mothers yap about
covered in hair, ***** from a week's sweat,
the tired, collapsing hug of an infant
wakes me from my drunkenness
I bring him into the light and he releases from the crook of my neck to stare with wrinkled eyebrows
and I wonder what I am:
a flowing, shadowy goddess who rescues a sad boy from sick dreaming.
Then he plucks at my nose and nnns.
Then sighs in a real, big, adult way that shrinks me.
As I carry him sideways into the kitchen I wonder,
will he write stories about the late evenings and his mother's red glass?
Drunk mothers and the babies who love them.