Complacencies of the sweatpants, and late
coffee and vomit on a worn sofa,
and the flesh-colored freedom of a naked baby
upon a rug mingle to dissipate
the holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She cries a little, and she feels the dark
encroachment of the norovirus,
as a calm darkens among the toilet bowls.
The pungent vomit and sticky, naked baby
seem things in some preemptive Purgatory,
winding across long hours, with retching sounds.
The day is like purgation, with retching sounds,
stilled for the passage of her weary feet
over the hours, to silent Bedtime,
dominion of the unexpected second child vomiting.