Premature

My brother could have
died that day,
as well as any other,
lying on his belly in
the back room,
his tiny form dwarfed
by the machine which
beeped constantly, calmly,
and woke me when his
heart stopped,
although that day,
rather than shaking him
I hesitated for some reason,
holding onto the bars
of his crib with small,
white-knuckled hands
until his foot moved
by itself, making
him realize that
he was there.