Qualifications

When my son feels like his throat is closing in the dark
and wakes me, I take him to the one upstairs room

where no one is sleeping or trying to sleep. He makes
space for me on the edge of the tub, and I think

It is good that I’m still here.
Often, I do not think so.
Not naively: I know that the dead wound us by going.

I know that I was a fool when my worry was mainly
to spare my parents the epiphany of my body, clammy

and slumped. I know that I could not die without
devastating the man I chose, the boys we dared make.

That I do not often think It is good that I’m still here
does not mean I think It would be better if I were gone.

And that my love is too many parts desperation does not
make it more a liability than, if I died, its die-cut would be.

I just mean that when my son wakes me, I think, Yes,
I am the one whose love is a match for this fear in this dark.