The Sleepy Weight, Or, The Last Time I Was Light

Saw him carrying her, a small

sack of sleep, about to fall

off his shoulder. Her head, so soft,

lolling, lifted up aloft.

Her legs dangled, trusting, loose.

No sense of being a goose

or a burden, just pure weight.

And then I thought, too late,

about the last time for me.

How far back? A blurry sea.

Maybe feverish, or small.

That un-weight, a gentle call

to surrender, to just let go.

To be held. The way they know

it, those little ones, so light.

I remember nothing, no light

catching on a face, no scent.

Just a hole, a memory rent.

Like a dream that wasn’t mine.

Just this image, a fragile sign

of a closeness I outgrew.

The sleepy girl, small and new.