By Robert Moore

The monitor gives the first whimper,
Which I pray will subside.

No such luck,
So I run up to his room.
He's crying, "Mama, mama," to the universe,
Sitting up and pointing at the stairs.

"Good boy," I tell him as I try to make him lie down.
In the end every mother's son wants to be told
"You're good, you're good" and believe it.

He tosses the pacifier off the bed
But curls into me.
"Put your fuzzy head under my chin," I beg.
And he does this for me.
His breathing turns rhythmic
And I shift away from him
But he stirs, sensing the fraud.

Look, I have work to do downstairs.
I watch the fading ceiling.
Taza, our black cat, sneaks onto my chest and sits there.
Okay, now I'm warm, like the stars could never be.

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