Wake Window

On nights I can’t sleep 
after your 3AM feeding,
I think about the world
you were born into.

Outside, a helicopter
whirs while sirens stir
neighbors from sleep.

I want to swat it from the sky
like a black fly
on a hot June night.

I know the good it does—
its waking blades warning
of potential danger. Its 
spotlight a projected path
for pursuit.

I loathe what it represents.

Outside the neighborhood,
danger is present, too.
Buildings leveled
to rubble and dust in Ukraine,
terror tunnels under hospitals
invaded by Israeli troops—
China launches flares
at an Australian helicopter
forcing evasive action.

Is this the world
you’ll know when you’re old enough
to face fears?


I lift you from your crib,
cradle your head in the crook
of my arm, and rock 
the chair gently,
back and forth,
back and forth,
until we both
are asleep.