Fever Hand

The way her small hand felt,

like a bird, too hot,

too delicate in mine.

Three years old, face flushed,

eyelids fluttering under the bathroom light.

Her breath, shallow and fast, a quick

fluttering against my wrist.

I called the doctor, voice tight.

Felt the thermometer cool, then beep,

a number I couldn't comprehend

but knew was wrong, too high.

She just looked at me, eyes wide and glassy,

no one else to ask, nowhere else to turn.

That night, I sat up,

her head light on my shoulder,

my own heartbeat too loud,

watching the faint rise and fall of her chest.

I was just a kid myself,

but suddenly, the only thing

holding her up, a thin thread

of fear and absolute need.