Today

breakfast before a prayer,
a look out the window
as I heat a bottle,

thumb a Hebrew lexicon, looking
for the word "sack-cloth,"
my ear pins back at a tiny moan.

I clean up vomit in three places:
the play pen, the bouncy seat, my shirt
man in episode of ER loses his wife.

waiting for Kris to come home
I watch Ava play with her foot
and wonder about dinner

I have watched the three windows
in our living room illuminate
a cradle swing and draw dim again

a theology text book rests
on the coffee table and I
breathe exactly with my daughter.