Febrile

In my arms, the baby goes limp, then tonic, 
back arched stiff. I shriek her panicked name 
while her limbs coil and jerk and her lips 
blanch dusty blue. She emits an unfamiliar sound, 
unconscious groan of the body unnerved—
 
then awakes sluggishly, face still gray but warm 
to the touch. At the hospital, I examine the speckled 
tile floor while the doctor says normal to stop breathing 
for up to 20 seconds and outgrow. He reports no long-term deficit—
as though he could possibly know. As though anyone 
 
could know who we would have been. Imagine: 
a world in which your sister caught an earlier train 
and never met her rapist. If there are infinite universes, 
there is one in which my daughter never turns 
blue. Another in which she never wakes up.
 
Of course, this is the nonsense rule of infinity,
which could drive anyone to madness. The doctor's
coat pocket is blotted with ink. Here in triage,
the baby coos and stands tall in the crib. The fever
breaks. I am told her prognosis is excellent.