Notes to my daughter:

Your tiny fingers cling to my arms.
You try to crawl inside my skin,
wanting again
earthly fusion with me,
stunned that you are now free.

Your fever spikes every hour or two,
heat emits from your inner core,
your body’s small war.
Red hair cemented to creamy skin
frames lacy blue veins in your eyelids.

Newspaper horror doesn't compare
to a small child slumped and lethargic,
my thoughts’ only target.
I'm shocked with my anger’s capacity
when faced with the weakness of me.

The night passes slower than adolescence,
my thoughts paralyzing
upon realizing
that I can do nothing but lie here.
I am a paper tiger.