C L   B l e d s o e

 

Morning

 

First, she chatters, makes raspberries,

and finally cries in her crib; I can hear it

through the walls, even without the monitor.

 

I stumble through the cold, change her

diaper, get her dressed, and heat a bottle

to feed her sitting in my lap, eyes closed.

 

The morning is all silence and warmth, then.