You don’t want to lay down, but it’s not time to run,
so you arch, throw yourself, scream, dive, and you hate me.
I bring you to myself and calm your body down.
You tire out then wake slightly, force some side-eye
like you trust me, and I slide you to your bed
as seamlessly as I can, deep-breathing in your ear
until you’re long-lost. You sleep long enough to little more
than recover, sit up in your bed and smile, start whining for me.
I say, “Come here,” and you wedge between my thighs,
contentedly rest your head on my leg, and you need me.
I pat your back, so you lean your face on my stomach.
You’ve forgiven me. Oh, you see your twin has the doll you like,
so you squeak, forget me. You go out to the world,
glance backwards at me, loving me, and carry on.