The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Hush by Nikki Ummel

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Self-Portrait as Godmother

As the moon rises, I lift him from the crib, his
						fingers curling around my hair, pulled
									by the whims

							of his dreams.
			My feet in soft shag, he swathes
									my swaying hips,
							lays his head on my chest.
						Humming Moonlight Sonata,
				I press my lips to his cradle cap. The moon

							is high as I
					(knowing soon
						he will rise, seek my side)
							lay him down again.

					I sweep hair from his eyes, nibble
								the tip of his ear, and revel in
						his smile, projected from his nighttime palace.
						
									Door cracked, I hear him find the crib’s edge,
										pull himself to stand
									  before his cry breaks midnight hush.
								My personal call to prayer. We repeat:
								  sleeping child, sleepless caregiver,
							midnight snack maker, monster under the bed
						 slayer. Permanently stained purveyor
					of wooden blocks and perpetual peeker
				of those hidden boos.

I lift him from the crib.
The moon sets.

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