Approaching Monday

Baby’s still sick.
Baby makes a wheeze
like he’s clearing his throat–
ahem–I am here–
ahem–
I can’t breathe.
My brother used to clear his throat,
after making definitive statements,
as if to say
Right? Right?
He also chewed ice
and twirled his leg hair.
Baby says I’m stupid.
Baby’s not a baby anymore.
Baby doesn’t love me anymore.
Medicine makes baby mean.
He shuts the door in my face.
When baby was a baby,
he nursed with little smacks
–ahem = love.
My breasts are lumps of wood.
Baby’s not a baby anymore.
Carry me, he says.
Carry me.
His weight fills my chest.
His head on my shoulder
–his thumb in his cheek–
these stairs carry us closer.
Baby says he loves me.
Right? Right?