Forty Minutes

His head settles against my neck,

the small curve of his ear,

and I'm locked in place—

any movement wakes him,

any shift breaks

whatever has made him trust

that I won't drop him.

Forty minutes.

My shoulder aches.

My neck stiff.

But I don't move.

The weight of him is different

than other weights.

It's the weight of responsibility,

the weight of being

the thing that holds,

the weight of knowing

that something small

and alive

has given me

its complete fragility

and believes

I won't fail.

His breathing is even.

His body loose.

I can feel his heart

against my ribs,

and I'm terrified

that my arm will give,

that my shoulder will collapse,

that I'll be

the reason

he falls.

But I sit very still.

I feel the exact shape

of being needed,

of being trusted

with something that breaks

if I'm careless.

His ear is warm.

His hair smells like

outside and sleep.

I don't move.

I hold him.

I let myself be

steady enough

to bear it.