I lie with my son
in the chalky darkness
of his room.
It’s way past his bedtime
but he uses his voice
as a hook,
spearing it over and over
into the quiet,
to hang on,
to stop himself from falling
asleep.
Do worms poo?
Do you think we’ll ever be able to teleport?
What’s a good water dragon name?
A part of me is annoyed
in that common square of emotion
that is stitched into a giant quilt,
uniting parents across the entire world,
who all just want their kid
to sleep.
But a part of me realizes
how preposterous
it is that we ask our children,
let alone ourselves,
to drop into an abyss
every night
where monsters may very well
play out scenes
in the cave of your skull.
I take his hand,
and his breath slows,
finally,
trusting perhaps
that he can at least
take me with him.