He sleeps through the clanging
of dinner dishes,
my husband on the phone
who always sounds like he is talking to someone
in Tongo,
the new creak
that moans from every second step
the staircase’s protest that we are home
too much.
What wakes him up
my sweet child
from his formal position
cheek flat and bum
in the air
is when I write.
No matter how quietly I tap
out the words
on my keyboard
a few minutes pass
and then the cry
so sad is that plea
for rescue.
It is as if he knows
I have gone away
and am about
to give birth
to another.