tickling yourself

when things get better it’s hard to not want to keep the edge all the time
but time gets slower in the evenings humming variations and bass lines too the lullabies on the sound box
tonight she cries and cries until she’s nested comfortably in my forearms,
one foot propped specifically in a crook
eyes tight shut and is she sleeping?
her hands wander about each other and three fingertips on her right hand begin to trace her other arm from wrist to elbow in soft strokes
until she’s giggling, tickling herself, again and again, and is she sleeping?
I stifle laughter through the humming and wait until she’s limp, a sack of potatoes my parents would call it, to lay her in the crib.