Your face is red
with the urgent fire
of not being able to breathe
I sit with you in the quiet hole of night
and I realize
the term throw up
is too breezy
like tossing leaves into the sky
like playing catch
like fathers flinging sons
into the pool
I rub your back
and you look at me every time
the earth quakes inside of you
that violent rejection of gravity
your eyes asking me
clear and scared
am I doing it right, mama
enduring these brief episodes of death.