by Ella Kitt
I pressed my palm against the prickly scab from last
night. She left me here, in the crib. After the door
closed I leaned my cheek against the
cold, lacquered wood and wept. My face glossy with
tears I cried out. I wrapped my small pink
fingers around the new blanket, but the green velvet gave me no
warmth. I tried to climb but couldn’t
reach the top. The bars went up and up and
up. I didn’t deserve the dark
The toys made monster shapes during the
night. Their silhouettes moved without form
shifting in the shadows like smoke. I smelled the sleeve of my
white jumper. It smelled like mommy, like honey and citrus.
No one heard me in our big red house.
I slapped the wood with my tiny fist and
asked for help. Don’t leave me here until
the sun sees through the windows.
until the coffee is on your breath.
I soothed myself by hitting my
head. Harder each time against the post.
The scab broke
open, the blood felt warm.
Daddy cried and said to stop but I
liked the dizzy, tipsy feeling
No more crying
My mind whirred like a dreidel, spinning, spinning
until the crib felt good enough for me.