Late Poem

This poem is actually about last week, but I'm so behind I may never catch up. Here it is.

Son, Sick

Is it wrong that I enjoy it?
Not his nuclear forehead
or the redness of his
eyes nor the vomit
I have to clean up
off the floor, no I enjoy
the warm proximity of him
when I put my lips to his forehead
to take his temperature
I adore his near-ness
the way a fever jerks him
back to childhood out
of his seven-year-old attitude
too old
to touch mom
to need mom
and suddenly I’m alive
again
the bringer of the Gatorade
the one’s who cool washcloth
feels like ice and spring at the same
time and he’s lying, quietly
listening to me read, he puts
his head on my shoulder
he nestles into me
nestles! and though I don’t wish
for him to be sick, in fact
I pretend he’s well so I can
send him back to school,
I actually love the days
when he sleeps without struggle
walks directly into my arms when
he wakes when his voice
doesn’t rise to a whine but instead
settles against my skin
a cool, considering hand