I lift our child
from the couch where she
has fallen asleep,
my hands warmed
with whiskey,
and carry her over
the smoking threshold
to the bed shrouded
in sea mist
that comes in each night
to relieve the heat
and inscribe with its
taste of salt
my small place
where I hold all the world’s
longing, fear, and care.
has fallen asleep,
my hands warmed
with whiskey,
and carry her over
the smoking threshold
to the bed shrouded
in sea mist
that comes in each night
to relieve the heat
and inscribe with its
taste of salt
my small place
where I hold all the world’s
longing, fear, and care.
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