September

Joy has taken you from me.

You don’t look at me
the way you did in June.

I don’t look at you
when you need me to.

I warm a bottle.
Change you.
Wait for you to sleep.

You remind me of my mother,
the way she’d scream for me
at 3 a.m.

The cleanup isn’t as bad.
It’s the cry to be held.

I want to be held.

Augustus Rivers