cool breeze It's the translucent quality of the light, the delicate way it falls across the crib making shadow slats touch her infant face, her thumb in her mouth, the suck-suck- suck of sound that competes with the hum of the electric fan blowing the thin little hairs on her head, cooling her cheeks, rustling the folds of the blanket that bundles her warmth, keeps in her body's heat. She will wake to the restless urge of a mother picking her up, clutching her as if she might die in those arms; taut muscles which are painful to watch. The littlest cry is all her mother wants, but she is an obedient child, fills the room with her noise, unable to understand a mother's tears washing down into hers. Unaware, as well, that coffins come in every size, even XS for babies who suddenly die in their cribs, the heat slipping away from their tiny forms whether or not the fan was left on.