by Christine Carpenter

The weight of tiny
warm heartbeats
hammer double time
to mine.
Broad little chest
takes steady breaths,
while the thick, curled lashes
framing my twin olive eyes
flutter closed.
Baby boy will only sleep
in close proximity
to me.
Mostly
that means splayed across
the core of who I am.
His peach fuzz head
pressed against my cheek,
sweat pooling
where our skin meets.
Sealed letters in stacks,
laundry piles in heaps.
He holds me captive—
captivating me
whilst he sleeps.
I have nowhere to go,
and everywhere to be.
Silently he teaches stillness.
There’s no evading
me.