his corkscrew curls glisten with sweat and adhere him
to my chest
the beating of my heart plays a lullaby only he can hear
and i run my fingers absently
through his hair.
his tiny bottom lip pokes out
his breath is no more than a whisper
i press my lips to his forehead
and hold him as he sleeps
i envelope him in love
and wish it were a tangible thing
to cloak him
like armor
to protect him from a world i didn’t predict.
did someone swap our staircase
for a treadmill when we weren’t looking?
am i standing in place
still standing in a space
where i have babies
but someone else decides if i can keep them?
sometimes it feels selfish
to offer up these children
to a world full of preconceived notions
that have nothing to do with
the lives they have touched
or
the sharpness of their minds
or even
the contents of their hearts
but in a world ripe with hate
having these brown babies is an act of revolution
and raising them takes
courage
and strength
i love my boy fiercely
in defiance of the fear that i feel
and silently send his sleeping mind
dreams of a bright future
that i dare to have faith in.