Under an Illness of the Moon

No words make a difference
against the child’s cries and damp heat—
only the rocking, rocking,

like Grandmother in her metronome chair,
the low arthritic moans that assumed an order
aimed outward, under her control.

You rock together on some exquisite rim,
where cell walls seem shared between you.
Dreams may be dragged

into morning, held behind the tougher
faces of daylight, that ether of routine.
But for now, the only reality

is that you rock the child,
rock the child, not sure
the fevered nightmare will end.