By Matthew Vetter

He always sleeps
in the early afternoon,
his small body hunched

in on itself like a question mark.
Of course I have to answer it,
walking back to stand above

the crib again and again,
staying long enough
to see the small

rise and fall of his back.
When he wakes he will climb
the chair in the kitchen.

His brother will
accidentally
brush against that

same small part of his back.
He will fall and I will know his pain
because I will count the seconds

between the first
scream and
the cry that follows,

those breathless, gasping
seconds, every muscle in his body
tense: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

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