Axolotl Night Light

Jackson Benson

The phosphorescent organ
inside this pale salamander
is sensitive. If you nudge

the amphibian, a light
then burns from the bulb
in its gut, pink silicone

skin aglow, as if this were
an adaptation to the dark
of our daughter’s nursery.

Between the devil’s hour
and morning, our toddler
will wake—say, a bad dream,

or a diaper, or a tummy ache—
the monitor’s tiny speakers
warping her wail into a glitchy

caterwaul echoing throughout
the apartment. On my turn,
pupils wide, I follow the cry

to her crib, patting, tapping,
slapping any object or surface
to orient myself, her room

a pitch black habitat, our kid
never more like an animal
I struggle to understand.

Then, in a moment, the keening
stops. The darkness doesn’t
break, but it eases, my hand

resting on this lantern made
in the image of this creature
named after the Aztec God

of the dead, dog-headed Xolotl,
who leads the sun at night
through the underworld,

the star and psychopomp
leaving enough of a flame
by which a stranger could,

perhaps, guide themself.