Measuring for Hours

A bowl of garlic is on the counter and I can hear
your knife chopping as I hum to our daughter,
the glow of jaundice still in her skin. Even though
her eyes have squinted into seamlessness, any
second she could move away from sleep
and into screaming. Time shifts like water
these days; we might be in the ocean
or the pool. Her sleeping fingers grasp my hands,
her small body one twitch away from waking.
I join her in the world of sleep, lean my body
into the recliner, her ribcage resting against
my small tuft of stomach. Once I stood
beside you. Mincing what you peeled.