Quiet Ill

After three days pain, some relief from the flu. There has been chaos every which way.
Then the baby’s turn begins
with a cry, a little head standing by my pillow.
I pick him up, and something silky and warm
wets my shoulder, his neck, the pillow,
the towels, the cloth diapers laid down. Over and over
through the dark night, he vomits out
complete composure and an uncomplaining sweetness.

I think of my own groaning and feverish thrash.
How much was refusing to be there, just there, as trusting and open as this little boy?