Wednesday's Child

You in your crib surrounded by plush, eyelids pinked by paper-thin threads of capillaries and sights yet seen. My blood. Your head, how you sweat when you sleep, sweet wet milky scent of skin and breath. How you lower your forehead sometimes to mine, the two of us on the floor of your bedroom reading books, closer, you come closer until you are one big starfished Cyclops, closer, and I inhale your giggle as if it were the smell of fresh baked bread.

I cannot get you close enough and so I drink in your breath, the sound of your voice, the way you look at me from under your eyelashes. Since making you I have been hungry. Your hair dusted with sand, the butter of your forearms inked with purple star stamps. You have no idea. I surrendered long ago.