The night after Michaelmas we drove

up. My husband left me with the baby

to help with the moving van

in what would, in hours, be home.

The lights were on and my breath

made clouds. It was midnight,

too early to call the utilities.

My daughter could not sleep. She cried

and cried in my arms, 

crying "dada!" and "mama!"

nuzzling for warmth. Eventually

sleep took her. I put her in the playpen

so that I could write a poem, 

covering her with the afghan blanket

and two velvet shirts.

I considered removing my blazer

or my layered sweater and flannel nightgown

but my teeth chattered. 

It is now three in the morning as I write this

on a diaper. I am a devourer.