Dead Weight

The fever finally quit around midnight,

leaving him limp across my ribs.

He’s heavier than he was an hour ago,

a sack of damp cotton and salt

pinning me to the sofa.

His pajama top is a wet sponge

against my collarbone, radiating a heat

that feels like a dying coal.

The remote is a mile away on the rug

and the water glass is empty,

but I don't move.

I just watch the shadows of the blinds

stretch like fingers over his hair,

listening to the way his lungs

have stopped their shallow rattling

and started the long, slow work of sleep.