My child woke with a scream last night. She clawed
the air until I held her close. I hummed
slow songs until her breathing stabilized.
She never screamed so fearfully before.
My child walked to school dragging her lunchbox.
She forgot to blow me a kiss to catch
and place on my cheek. I whispered words
to the clear sky to keep my daughter safe.
At work we work rhythmically. We stretch
our minds to ease the forced monotony.
Usually, I'll devise a scheme. I'm
the crossword puzzle queen, a word machine.
Instead I'm thinking if she screams I'll jump
into her nightmare and face her demon.
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