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.
Some Nights My Daughter Sings the Lullaby Too
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