His toys are still where he left them,
lined like witnesses in the spotlight of his nightlight—
soft, blue, blinking in the dark—
like he still needs it,
in case I might.
The bed is too large without him.
Even his blanket is cautious.
I sing lullabies to no one,
kiss the pillow his head should be on.
Tonight, he sleeps where I cannot nurse him.
His father holds him instead.
The night asks questions I can’t begin to answer—
sharp ones that turn a mother’s hair gray
with every mile between her and her child.
The night demands answers now that my arms are empty:
about the sin of the father—
whether I am guilty.
“What did you do?”
“I loved him.”
His words were a blasphemy against me,
yet I feel punished for demanding respect.
Because it’s his visitation—
I must sleep alone.
Goodnight forgiveness,
Goodnight grace,
Goodnight, empty space.
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