Breath

She stood beside my bed, annoyed 
in footie pajamas at two a.m. Clutching her doll. 
"I can hear you breathing."
 
She woke me from deep sleep:
some dream, some weird panic
with costumes and flying that made sense at the time.
She woke me up because my sleep-breath was so loud
she could hear it down the hall. "Stop it," 
she hissed. "I want you to stop." 
 
She wakes me up like this every night. 
I haven't been this tired since my mother was here
and my father and I took shifts, dripping morphine into her mouth
every hour, through the night. In between I lay on the couch
and did not sleep. I remember standing beside her bed
listening to her raspy breath
and silently willing her to stop.