Pulse

The radiator gives a thin, metallic hiss,

reminding me of all the things I'll miss.

The baby’s head is heavy on my arm,

a soft and quiet, breathing alarm.

I shift his weight to ease the ache,

fearing he is something I might break.

His soft spot pulses under the skin,

where the bone is dangerously thin.

In the deep, warm fold of his neck,

a line of milky crust is a tiny speck.

I hold my breath and watch the rise,

the terror blooming behind my eyes.