eighteen days old
not ready to be asleep
or put down
or quiet,
we roam rooms
for soothing tones,
not finding them
right away.
in and out of swaddles,
another,
another,
another,
this one.
i feel the discontent
you express
without the label,
showing a body
of syndicate
cells,
arrangements
forms
clusters
across
things
I
can’t
describe
well.
in the dark your cheeks scrunch,
relax
tilt towards
then
away;
lean on my chest
and your palms.
fabric grazes your body
and holds you
gently.
my mood does not fold
into your
gentleness today,
and you
can feel
my thoughts
keeping us both
awake.
near
names
of
those
not
held
gently
enough,
with rage
that is anguish.
i nurture us less well
tonight,
distracted by
my
disparate
selves
and the rooms
without
soothing,
still.
without.
without.
without.
without.
without.
and the rooms,
and the bodies.
and the rage.
still.
still.
forever and still.