November 8: Sick

He’s been exiled to his bedroom. He’s counting
The days 1, 2, 3, 4. On day five he begs to go
To school. We reverse roles. I tell him
He must sleep in and play with his toys till
He sounds like my child again. I don’t know
This docile pink cheeked boy whose chest expands
When he breathes the air sucks
Through the mucus. He keeps coughing
Up like he’s talking through a liquid screen.
He takes his vitamins, knows he’s never been
This sick. His room in warm and stuffy. Unreasonably
I worry about inhaling his germs, the little
Airborne mites of his breath might lodge
In my lungs and open their second mucus franchise
That boy has already built a nest in my throat
That scratches and burns and feels like home
And when he hurts I want to swallow him up,
Swaddle him in saliva and birth him again
wet, shiny, good as new.