For my husband

The "baby" in question is now five, but the sentiments remain the same.

Last night, after our baby vomited a shining milk fountain
that splashed to the bedroom floor like a show
we went back and forth with towels and thermometers
taking turns holding him
while the other mopped the floor.
My husband changed out of a shirt so wet
it looked like he plunged into a pool head first
to save our baby from it.

Last night, after baby’s eyes began to droop
I watched him sleep, fearful of fever
before tip-toeing back to the family room.
We faced each other in the quiet dark
the backdoor light gleaming through the gauzy blinds
and the swish-swash sound of the dishwasher
splashing over us. I realized how cold I was.

Last night, stranded together, the baby’s light sleep
keeping us out of our shared room
I fell asleep on the couch as my husband held me
thinking about how the difference
between I’m cold and I’m warm
between safety and harm
was, simply, his arms.