Some Nights My Daughter Sings the Lullaby Too
She holds a note, loud,
more a shout than a note, stretches
her little voice over the room
like the blanket I tuck in the crib
around her, nods her head with
each stop and pause, waits
for a word she knows, something
like girl and dress and baby. My
baby. My god. This song,
welling itself—I am
so imperfect, so seeping
and bloated, but this
song is ours.