The child's slight body
curves in the bed
like a new moon
still
in its darkness.
A dark of looming
possibilities:
millipedes, invasions
and abandonments.
A spray of hair that
marks the pillow's crest.
Arms, hands and fingers
gathered in a bundle at
her chest; a tangled breastplate,
tiny gesture of defense.
Wide eyes implore
the shadows to release
her furniture and playthings
from their grasp.
She waits as fervently
as in a prayer,
urging her mother to
the pianobench downstairs.
The music, as familiar as
her mother's hands themselves,
floats up halls and stairwells,
finds its way; sneaks
through the cracked edge
of her bedroom door
and weaves its comfort
like a blanket,
soft with use.
The child softens too,
uncoils and
settles in the bed
as in a nest.
Sighs deeply and
slides safely into sleep.
-- Deb Cooper