My children sleep with their legs tucked like frogs
and their mouths pulled into suck-shape,
as if the womb and the breast
weren’t imagined galaxies ago,
as if there were good memories
from the pink skin-lights,
the daddy booms, the spicy
thai peppers and the rumbles thereafter.

They yield to blanket silk,
curl tight within, and dream,
drift at sea and storms don’t wake.

Far away, above and below,
inside the cup of the most inside ear,
I am singing.