I can't kiss this hurt away.
I can't blast Smashmouth on the CD player and dance with you
until we both fall down, laughing.
I can't nod sagely or tell you it'll be better in the morning.
I can only sit here with you, hours past bedtime.
I can only swallow fear.
Face the terror in your eyes
I smell it in your sweat.
No longer little boy sweet.
You had your first cold at 7 weeks.
I stayed up all night listening to you breathe.
Antibiotics, bubblegum pink three times a day
for the ear infection that followed.
You ask me to get a gun and shoot you.
I don't know which frightens me more
your pleas or the tears you do not shed.
My eyes trace the spider web of cracks on the hallway ceiling.
I count heartbeats.
Every morning I lay out five pills with your breakfast.
Three amber capsules glistening with cod liver oil.
One clear capsule--an hourglass of white grains.
One tiny yellow tablet, scored.
You swallow them whole. Without water.
You promise me you won't hurt yourself tonight.
I make a nest of beanie babies and tuck you in my bed.
A tired voice answers my page.
Increase the dosage.
The terrors do not follow you to sleep. Your face is smooth.
You drool on my pillow.