Will we know what to do when our kid gets sick?

well, we could just change everything
or buy new things, or read things or pickle things or toss things,
clean things or eliminate things, plan things then cancel things,
organize things and supplement things, or we could, maybe we should
 
do nothing. or we could move furniture, move home, move schools,
move cities, move countries, move the kids into the same room
(stupid idea), move the TV into the basement (stupid idea), and
we could move towards each other arms outstretched or we could
 
scratch each other with our silent sadness, and wonder why
the other can’t muster the strength to pull us up, up out of this.
we could lie on the sofa in the pink cloud evenings and wonder
why and when and why again it all went so wrong, we could long
 
for sleep, for that treacle oblivion that transports us back to the time
before: when we would ungratefully wallow in our mundane blessings,
now looking at the wounds from the descent as the fall still falls, still
cuts and thunders us into darkness. we could lose the light in the house
 
on the rocks, wood smashing into splinters onto stone, debris taken
by the angry wash. you could watch the way her black eyes flicker
and fixate, flicker and fade, you could watch her fade and wait again
for the doctor to call (she doesn’t), you could watch the way leaves
 
eddy and fall onto the forest floor and wonder about all the things
you could have done differently, all the signs that could have been
signs: when words wouldn’t come or bumps wouldn’t heal or when
rashes traced maps across tiny backs, you could track every trail back
 
from birth to now, every violent forcep move, every itchy throat, every
moment you weren’t watching—should you have watched her more?
you could grind melatonin and drip amoxycillin into yoghurt,
you could stroke her small hot head with lavender-dipped thumbs
 
you could say "I’m so proud of you" and mean it, or you could say
"I will never let anything bad happen to you," and listen to the lie—
for haven’t you already? you could take refuge in hugs from tiny
hands, you could cry: you do cry. you could look for the light again

you could not find it. you could just remember it must still be there.