My child is ablaze and, because it's not the first time,
I'm efficient. A dropper-full of sticky Motrin
smelling like candy on his lips. Tepid water
in the tub. I climb in with him like we're one being,
the hot slack infant and I. His mouth finds my breast
while I douse his hair with bath water. Keep the head cool
I hear in our doctor's soothing baritone. I'd rather think
of that voice than the baby's burning head. The fontanel
still closing, brain abuzz, and all that trust. In truth,
I'm telling my first lie to him, calmly singing Brahm's
Lullaby in the heat of this moment as though no harm
could ever come while he's in the cradle of my arms.