Sunday Morning, by Everymom

Sunday Morning

by Everymom

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.