Two Sleeping

She is soft.
Her hair folds like a river.

The child soaks the mother up.

Time folds into itself.
A wrist slack on the quilt.
The small thread of breathing.

Her stillness brushes against his skin.

Count each inhale like a bead on a string.

Finger twitching in a half dream.

His breath catches.

She fills the room with quiet
and there he is, hands open
like an empty bowl.

Terry Heick, 2025

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