A Small Weight

Sarah’s breath, soft on my ear,

“Careful, his head.”

And then he was there, a heat

against my ribs,

a bundle of new air.

His skull, a fragile dome,

paper-thin, pulsed under my thumb,

a small, steady drum.

Fine dark fuzz on top,

like a promise of winter.

His mouth, a perfect O,

searching.

He smelled of milk and sleep,

and something else,

something ancient,

like earth turned fresh.

My own heart hitched,

a sudden, sharp catch.

This small weight,

this impossibly small weight,

held all the futures

I could never keep.