Holding Breath

The hospital air was stale and flat

like a room that’s been breathed in too long.

Then my brother leaned over the chair

and tucked five pounds of heat into my arms.

I didn't move my elbows.

I watched the skin on the top of her head,

a tiny, wet drum thumping against the light,

keeping time with a world she just joined.

When I finally walked out to the lot

the cold hit my lungs like a mouthful of ice.

I felt too big for the sidewalk,

too heavy for the air.