A postcard from last night

Is there such thing as an anti-ode?

Greetings from the sea of sick
where I stand, dazzled by vomit

throw up pooling and dripping, spooling
from my little boy in his fuzzy pajamas

who had no idea illness was coming
to claim his stomach for the night:

an ugly guest pushing for power
the wee hours marked by retching.

He sleeps so small underneath his covers
barely awake as the monster takes.