if his chest is rising up
and down as a billowing cloud
on a smoky day. If air is blowing through
his lips, like a hole in a balloon. You place
an ear near his face to hear the air escape.

You check to see
if he’s rolling his hips,
if the sheets are still as a stillborn
lying still warm in his mother’s arms.

You check to see
if his color is ripe as a peach
hanging on the tree. Is he twitching
his knee under the covers. You
hover as a hummingbird. So quiet, you
do not break his slumber. But some slumbers
look like death. Check again, his breath.