Forty Minutes

Her head goes slack

against my collarbone.

Suddenly I'm a statue

nobody told me the rules for.

Her palm is hot,

splayed across my shoulder—

I can feel each small finger

like a weight that means something.

My arm is already burning.

The feeling is leaving my hand.

I watch her mother across the table

not looking at us,

and I think: if I move,

if I breathe too much,

she will wake and cry

and it will be my fault,

so I don't move.

Forty minutes of this.

Forty minutes of my shoulder

understanding what it means

to be needed for something

that isn't even asking.

When she finally shifts,

I think I feel relief,

but it's just the pins and needles

coming back,

tiny electric apologies

running through my arm

like they're sorry too

for making this matter so much.