One ‘yes’ and our doors blew open
into sleepless nights,
emergency room visits,
social worker calls,
and milky white spit-up
on every shirt, couch, and rug we own.

Some days neglecting hospitality
seems wise. My arms are thin,
too weak to carry, too tired
to comfort all the needs grown
within these walls.

When I first held you, your legs
stiffened like boards against
my stomach, your head jerked tense
on my shoulder, and you breathed
in hiccoughs, air jostling the flimsy flaps
in your throat. Now I press my hand
on your back. Your frame softens,
molded to the contours of mine, falls
heavy against my chest in sleep.
You breathe deeply and I
am not unaware.