Oliver


I took him that morning. My sister, as worn
as her son from his colic, needed rest.

I sat with him in the rocking chair--
both of us aching from his cries.
Eleven days old, the child was mine,
if only long enough to lull him
with the songs of my youth.

                            His back to my chest,
my heartbeat strong behind him--

his frustration broke with the growl
of grunge. Eddie Vedder’s incoherence
soothed his screams, stole his focus.

We rocked back and forth
beginning to sync with the drums
and then I heard it:

                      the cadence
              of his calm breaths release.

I held my nephew close,
slouched down in that old chair,
each immersed in a new state
of love and trust.

---

RACHEL NIX is a native of Northwest Alabama, where pine trees outnumber people and she likes it. She is the Poetry Editor at cahoodaloodaling, Associate Editor at Pankhearst, and makes the coffee at her day job. Her work has recently appeared or is forthcoming at Rust + Moth, Picaroon Poetry, and Hobo Camp Review. She can be followed at @rachelnix_poet on Twitter.