Boys piled on top of me, higgledy piggledy.
A six-year-old leg flung across my thigh,
A three-year-old arm across my chest.
Benji, lying, with my heart as his pillow,
Theo, clinging to me like a baby, something he is now too grown-up to do
except in his sleep.
I look at their curly lashes. Their parted lips. Their new-born freckles.
I feel their soft little boy breath on my cheek.
I marvel at their perfection.
I drink in their beauty.
The late afternoon sun streams across the bed,
painting us gold.
My neck is cricked. My arm is pulled.
But I don't move.
Because this is heaven.
To be sleeping in a pile of boys.
2 years ago