Dead Weight, Living Breath

Her head against my shoulder, a sudden, soft slump,

car seat straps unbuckled, a careful lift.

She goes completely still, a heavy, warm lump,

a dead weight, a momentary gift

of trust. Her small hand, usually curled so tight,

is slack now, fingers loosely open, free.

Her breathing, shallow, a small, humid might

against my ear. She trusts me, utterly.

My back protests, a quiet, dull complaint,

but I hold her, careful, across the sill,

into the cool dark of the house, a faint

purple shadow on the wall. She's still.

This burden, precious, almost too much to bear,

this sudden, quiet, unasked-for freight.

The living breath, a soft ghost in the air,

and the quiet ache of a love so great.