Maternal Pulse - a poem to my child

Maternal Pulse

In the dim nursery, we rock.

Your hand,

which in your conscious hours

is forever wet from use

soothing  your newly swollen gums,

now is warm and dry,

and curled delicately around

my manicured finger.

There we rock

until your head lolls back

sleepily

mouth still in an O,

the perfect inverse

of my form,

one cheek flushed pink

from having been pressed

against my breast.

Keeping cadence as we rock,

I hoist you upright

and hear your soft snore,

imperceptible

until I drew you to my ear

and pressed your cheek to mine.

Still we rock,

your head on my shoulder,

until it grows suddenly

heavier

your waking resistance

replaced by intrinsic trust.

That moment

crystallized

will be my notion of you,

a Pompeian relic

when you grow to be the man

I only imagine,

as in this dim nursery, we rock.