Bridges keep collapsing
in his body.
What if the graft dissolves
like last time?
Like the surgery didn’t
happen?
Then weeks of epinephrine,
choking so bad
he shot up in his crib
to grab me,
and panic wicked him away
shit after shit, vomit
after vomit. Every day,
death peered closer,
until I let go, let them
replace the trach.
This time, they’ll cut
the graft wider,
place it higher, so when
I uncurl the canula
from the scar-twined
hole in his neck,
and, in his pupils,
I see a patch of trust
blooming through fear—
he will breathe.
It will hold.
