I thought her cries would go through me
like other people’s babies’ did – grief-stricken, anguished –
for the loss of a dummy or a shoe.
Instead it is the fear that goes through me,
the fear of what else my mind can throw at itself,
in these early sleepless days.
Outside, the mountain dove with its blood-red eye
beads at us from the roof, its plumage slate
with spots of snow, then flies away.