Poem

Settling In
Sleep at Seven Weeks

I can tell when she's going to settle in.

We struggle all evening.
Uncomfortable whimpers. Grunts.
That slight lifting up of her stomach
That tells me she's uncomfortable.
I pick her up, cradle her over my left shoulder.
We walk. I pat. We walk. I pat.
More cries. Some shrill.
She arches her head back.

I roll my eyes.
Frustration. Inadequacy.
Every night this struggle.
She's a puzzle I can't solve.
As I walk. And walk. And walk.
I feed. She eats. Gulps, swallows, gulps.
I know more than milk is getting in.
Air.
But her eyes close.
This may be it.
I lift her up, again. To my shoulder.
But it was too much.
The air.
As it escapes, her eyes open.

So we start over.
Back on the floor, on the blanket.
Stare at the fan. Maybe even a smile.
I return one back, even though the first wasn't for me.
A change. Warm and dry.
Caresses that I try to impress upon my brain.
Try. Try.
Remember what this feels like.
So, so, incredibly soft.
And sad, because I know I won't remember.
This time will pass and so I'm trying to let it all
Seep into my skin.

But then another cry. Another shriek.
I hear it from the inside, not in my ears.
Her cry is part of me.

So we start over.
I pick her up and we walk.
I pat. Over. And over.
I walk. I feed.
Sometimes her eyes close again.
We may be close.
But I know better.
There's still more to go.

And then.
I barely know it when it happens.
But it happens. And I know.
She settles in.
And I can lift her on my shoulder.
And I can rearrange the blankets.
And I can lay her, ever gently, into her bed.
And I know. With this one, I know.
(So unlike the others.)

She's asleep. A good sleep.
And I can breathe.
And I can stretch.
And I can write a poem.

But if she wakes soon
That will be all right.
Because she's little
And that's what is supposed to happen.
And I'm her mother
And mothers do what they do.
They have to. They love to.

And I love her.