Gravity

The toddler’s head is a heavy stone

tucked right into the notch of my collarbone.

He’s three, but he feels like iron,

like a sinker dropped into the deep.

My left arm has been gone for twenty minutes,

a pins-and-needles ghost,

but I’m not going to be the one

to break the spell of this breathing.

There’s a damp circle spreading on my shirt,

warm and honest and slightly sour.

This is the only time he isn't screaming,

and the only time I feel

like I’m actually holding something down.