by Carolyn Parkhurst

How long has it been since you slept for one, not two?
The cry comes after you fall asleep watching “The Simpsons.”
You plod down the hallway, trip over forgotten shoes,
reach into the crib without turning on the light
to find in the dark: damp hair, hot hands, hot belly.
And the voice that says “water” is so hoarse it breaks your heart.

How deep does the fever go, would it feel hot to touch his heart?
The thermometer reads one hundred and three point two.
You fight over Tylenol, but some probably makes his belly.
While you wait for relief, you take him down to watch “The Simpsons.”
You’ve watched two episodes before it’s even light.
“Look,” you croon in his hot ear, “Krusty has big shoes.”

Two days go by without anyone putting on shoes.
Everyone’s cranky, you take breaths to slow your heart
when he screams because you won’t let him touch the light.
“Too hot,” but under your breath, “He’s only two.”
You can’t imagine watching another minute of “The Simpsons,”
You’re starting to hate the sight of Homer’s belly.

On the third day, he struts around, puffs out his belly.
You know he feels better when he brings you his favorite red shoes.
On the swings at the park, he says, “Talk about ‘The Simpsons,’”
so you name the characters, but you’re thinking about his heart,
the first time the doctor’s Doppler picked up two
heartbeats, and the room was filled with it, under the cold light.

He runs through the house, insisting you turn on every light,
and it’s hard to believe he ever lived in your belly.
You can barely remember when this house held only two,
before you could know the struggle of putting on shoes
or imagine the incremental widening of your heart
when he makes pronouncements like “Maggie is a kind of a Simpson.”

Years ago, you used to watch “The Simpsons”
like an intellectual, looking for references, waiting for the light
bulbs to go off. But now it’s more an exercise of the heart.
You watch the child in his p.j.s, the sweet paunch of his belly
and wait to hear what he sees: “Homer has black shoes.”
“How many?” you say, and his smile lights the room. “Two!”