"Be my brother" she tells me every night
"sing it, sing it!" her head curled into my shoulder:
her skewed perception of safety where the bed bugs can't get her.
"What are the bed bugs?" Only a bad dream, my darling,
and not if I'm here. "Sing more, my Nanna used to sing to me."
And then there is no more need for words,
she is certain of her safety now, not even alone
behind closed doors; she has the stars
splashed onto the ceiling in a bright arc…
and the question sat perched on the tip of my tongue,
in aim of protecting the mind behind it that is
not as cold as it’s seen:
Do you love me?
Such a simple thought for a girl like her,
fish live in water, one plus one is two and of course
I love you, what else would this be?
But I didn't because she was eight and also five
and I was her protector: the frail, skinny arms, thin, light hair,
heating up her pizza so it wouldn't burn her mouth.