Mother's Blankie

Every night we lie down together

talk and laugh, my nine-year old and I.

She says closer, pulling on me.

Closer, Mama, as though she is very small.

In private she says Mama: in public, it's "M."

I tell her if we were any closer

I'd be pregnant again.

I'm obliged to say that every night: she giggles.

She also likes that "she" was floating inside me

even when I was very small.

She wants to know if I'd love her if she

were not herself.

I say it's an impossible question.

Still, she demands to know.

I say yes, hoping it's the right answer.

She wants to tell the silly joke about

a woman who birthed an eyeball.

It's a sick joke and we hoot every time.

She asks if I'm hot or cold. 

Freezing, I say, so she clambers

on top of me, lies there like a quilt,

an electric blanket, a lover.

"I can hear your heart," she says.

I can't hear hers, but can smell her hair.

Our breathing becomes a unison.

She thinks about her future child

who is with us there, dreamless,

drifting.

copyright Julianza Shavin 2009