Momma

Now I lay me down to sleep,

turning onto my side,

drawing my hands to my chest,

my legs to my heart.

This is how I learned to fall asleep,

with you curled around me,

my fingers wrapped around your thumb.

When I wake in the middle of the night

between dreams, in the darkness

that you filled, diffused,

I still want to call out for you.

Instead, not knowing what the darkness holds

but knowing that it does not hold you,

I take the pad of my pointer finger,

place it on my navel

— so I am rooted,

harkening, extending past my core,

deep violet lines drawing

from my navel to yours,

from me to you.

And if I should die before I wake,

know that I said this prayer for you

(that I do not pray),

that I dream of you

tying your hair back

jumping in puddles

giving grilled cheese and (unheeded) advice

holding me until my chest rises and falls without me.