183 Days Old

Between the time I first laid you down

and sunlight coloring the blinds,

I pick you up to comfort you

fifteen times.

Each time I repeat,

your body is safe

aunt Amanda is safe

your bed is safe,

you’re okay.

Reflecting now I wonder if you

needed those words,

enough to wake up unable to soothe alone.

your eyes stare at the dark intently,

noticing and forming meanings

even before words.

Sometimes there are sounds,

but mostly there’s a straining.

First in your back as you straighten it,

next the tops of your feet,

and your individually separated fingers.

You’re not looking at me,

and your body alerts me only partially

how you experience nighttime.

how are you experiencing…everything,

I want to ask you,

though that question expands too far too fast.

That’s what I would say if asked.

You look at me and I wonder,

can you read my thoughts

or are you reading my body?

Are you mimicking,

or are we mirroring?

These sensitivities of ours can be

extraordinary,

and at night

they are just what wake us.

I will tell you

every time you need to hear;

your body is safe.

your bed is safe.

you’re okay.

In all honestly…

I am able to believe in safety

only as episodes too.

When it’s dark and my eyes are aglow

with feeling,

widened knowing is present with us.

That wakes me…

and the stirring persists.

Be stirred little one

by how alert you feel.

It’s okay;

your body is safe.