it’s the witching hour
and here, all across town,
evils have worked their way into
the darkness engulfing us.

as quiet as a kitten snuffling
against the door, she whispers
that she is sick,
that she needs help.

with ginger hands we strip
off her sodden clothes,
and i run a washcloth under
water so hot it might sting her.

up and down her small body
i wipe away the illness, then
slip the clean nightgown over
her head in one anxious movement.

the new (old) bed in the green room awaits.
she crawls in and i whisper,
Do you want me to lie here with you?
she whimpers and nods, words lost.

i ask her to move over a bit,
but before i have slid in beside her,
she has inched her body wholly
against mine, her fingers on my face.

When you were a baby, I say,
the tears already sliding down my cheeks,
we used to share this bed every night,
just you and me, girl.

he comes in, offers to replace me,
but he can see the tracks down my cheeks,
her tiny fingers on my chin,
and without another word,
leaves us in our bed of sorrow, love.