Doubled, Briefly

Finally, I consider whether
I have been a terrible mother.
A squirrel limps by, too wilted
for chatter. I might just be.

I would wake early, Saturdays,
worried for one or the other—
decibel of fever-cry, a swell
of friendless misery—

because I’d been too tired
all week to register trouble
or fix what was mendable.
Crow-feather; slant pine tree.

Mirror of lapses; hot spell simmers.
This love is hardly bearable.