postpartum

Photo by Anete Lusina on Pexels.com

when my body was 
tired of holding you in
you burst forth into the
world like a predator.
they made note of you,
handed us glossed up flyers
on how not to screw you up 
and sent us home. 


I’ve forgotten now if the 
papers mentioned sadness,
unassuming as a 
bump on the sidewalk - 
yet there it was, sitting with me 
in the recliner by your crib
counting your breath like
the anticipation of a storm. 


it followed me like a lapdog
curling up in quiet corners,
reappearing when
it craved attention. 
once it hopped into my lap
as I nursed you to sleep
but I was too tired to send
it away, so we cried together. 


weeks swept by and I 
refused to feed it so
it grew thin, came
looking for me less.
without the nagging I 
noticed the way you 
plucked your toes and
drank in the world. 

it took a year for it
to die, shelled and
alone in a far corner of 
the unkempt living room.
I buried it outback with
an unmarked grave and
a promise never to speak
of it, the unwritten rule.