She sleeps on the side her heart is on — sleeps facing the sun that juts through our window earlier and earlier. In the belly of the sky the sun kicks and cries. My wife has begun to wear the huge clothes of inmates, smuggling you inside her — son or daughter. I bring her crackers and water. Wardens of each other, in the precincts of unsteady sleep, we drift off curled like you are, listening to the night breathe.