Heartache

The gray textured mountain ranges and ravines,

of our Sunday morning bedspread,

envelop my sick toddler.

 

She whimpers in her light sleep,

her binky quietly chirping,

as she suckles it.

 

My pajama top is clutched,

in her pudgy little hand,

to ensure that I must remain at her side.

 

In the kitchen,

there is a disaster scene of an early morning breakfast,

prematurely expelled.

 

In the bathroom there are also remnants on the floor:

soiled baby clothing, a damp hoody towel,

and droplets of sticky cherry medicine.

 

Later I will plan my escape, then my industrial cleaning fury.

For now, I succumb to her tiny,

but powerful grasp.

 

Letting myself melt into the folds of the comforter,

I snuggle close to the radiant heat,

of my stricken cherub.

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