Myth

Pouring down rain and the thunder rumbling. You, a feverish sweat-mess, sitting on my lap in the rocking chair, rubbing your nose back and forth against my T-shirt, finally falling asleep, your little furnace body pressed against my heart.

A masking tape tag with your name in black block letters on the back of flowery corduroy overalls. The woman at ECFE telling me to put my coffee on the shelf in order to respect the safety of the children. As if she knew that only an hour earlier you'd pulled Daddy's mug of hot coffee onto yourself. Your small foot below the bathroom faucet. The coffee-drenched toe of your sleeper now soaking in an ice cream bucket filled with water and Oxy-Clean. Still, I wanted to punch the ECFE woman in the face.

Poems about Leda. The rain comes and I write notes to myself for discussion tomorrow: "What words does Graves use to mean rape?" "What kind of person is Zeus in the poem?" "How is the poet reinventing the power dynamic of the original myth?"

Your father is singing in church. Joining his voice to other voices while the rain comes down.

When you are sick the power dynamic shifts. I know how much you need me. I remember that it is possible to lose you. Your body is hungry for my body in a way it hasn't been since you were small. It may be selfishness more than selflessness that makes me pull you close and rock you until your limbs grow heavy and you sleep.