Poetry by Norah Mae Clifford

I don’t know if he could tell
but half the time, I feigned
sleep
so he would carry me
inside.

Once you hit the bridge, close
your eyes.
Weigh down
your breathing
and calm
your heartbeat.

When he cradles you
to his chest
rest your head
on his breaths
expanding
in and out.

As he scoops you up
your limbs can turn
to tired
octopus tentacles
dangling
in the night-sea.

If he knew you were awake
he would ask:
Princess
or sack of potatoes?
And you would say
princess
but then get thrown
giggling
over his shoulder.

But asleep
there is just
the immediate
pull
of head to chest.

You will start dreaming
in the two minutes
he carries you
from car to bed.

You’ll hear his heart beat
louder
on the stairs
and then soften
as he settles you
on the pillow
and draws
blankets
to your chin.

Norah Mae Clifford (she/her) grew up in Lambertville, a small town in New Jersey. Norah graduated from Franklin and Marshall College with a BA in Creative Writing and a minor in Music Performance. Norah currently lives in New Orleans, Louisiana where she interns with the Tennessee Williams Festival. She has been published or is forthcoming in The Wingless Dreamer Journal, The Listening Eye, and Here: A Poetry Journal. You can contact Norah at norahmclifford@gmail.com and find her on instagram @norahmclifford.

Photo by Dessy Ilsanty on Unsplash