First Cold - Poem

   Rales of phlegm rattled the midnight air.
   The baby all stuffed up, asleep in his crib.
   Later his crying, different this time--
   a sad crying, not meaning, Feed me.
   I'd never felt flesh so hot. He burned
   like a cinder. I watched the thermometer rise
   to 104 [degrees], and I froze, then ran to the phone
   to call my husband, still in transition
   between single and married.

   I dialed the bar where I knew he'd be.
   A stranger answered. I could hear music
   and laughter. The voice on the phone was drunk.
   I said my husband's name, Is he there?
   The voice wanted to make jokes--
   Who wants to know? What's it worth to you?
   I asked again, Please, is he there? and I began
   to cry, Please, my baby is sick, and the man
   became sober, said, Hold on, lady, just hold on,
   and he found my husband and sent him home.

   For hours we took turns dipping the baby
   into tepid water, as if bronzing him.
   Toward dawn the fever broke,
   and the baby peed. An arc of urine rose
   like a fountain and fell, tinged the water yellow.
   My husband and I faced each other
   across the plastic tub, gazed in mute wonder
   at the small priest who'd come to bless
   and curse us both, two strangers,
   hardly knowing our names.

Diane Lockward's poetry has appeared in the Beloit Poetry Journal and other literary magazines, and has been featured on Poetry Daily and Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac

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