There was one amend I never made.
You were a baby; I left you alone in your crib.
It was only for half an hour.
You were a sound sleeper, I told myself.

I was going in search of a man
who drank too much
as you would one day grow up
to drink too much.

I never forgot that night. I don’t remember
if I found the man but I remember
the feel of my hands gripping the wheel
as I pulled away from the curb past midnight.

I remember the hairs on the back of my neck
slick with sweat, my teeth chattering in August.
Sometimes, I replay that night: I lose my keys.
The tire goes flat. A semi hits me head on.

In the cell-phoneless night you lie in a black room
your small fists uncurling into neglect.
I never left you again. I wanted that night
to erase itself.

Like secret writing that disappears in bright sunlight.
Now I know I must eat my regret
despite the gristle,
the slivers of bone.