Comeback

 

Slowly slowly slowly the blur sharpens

in increments of sleep.

Stress shedding like the second snake skin appearing in the potting shed that day

using the rafters to scratch surface smooth.

Like the one time I went nearly blind

Only now the opposite.

Chronic idiopathic uveitis they called it.

Wizard eye I did on good days.

Slowly slowly slowly the world faded, almost imperceptible

like the wax messages and lemon juice burnt edges of pirate maps we made as children

until I couldn’t quite find my way, thread the needle, cut the carrots, park the car.

This is just that. In reverse.

Our brain matter changes as our bellies grow and more after the baby is born.

The word escapes.
The math doesn’t add.

The cataracts came quickly. A side effect of steroids.

One day I left the hose on. At least it wasn’t the stove.

One day I forgot to strap him in. We made it safe.

A laser cut them clear and when I pulled back the bandage the world felt brighter than before

So much it hurt.

I wanted to walk outside before I should;

(I never really liked being told what to do.)

(I find it hard to follow directions anyway.)

So I left the house.

There was a tree, an oak, I knew now, then,

with so many many leaves, each unique

that I could see. I imagine maybe it will be like that,

like that existential philosopher (Kierkegaard) said:

the knight of resignation lets it all go

and with faith gets it all back.

 

Anniversary of a hurricane

 

One year ago today our waters rising.

River flooded park then streets by sunset.

The walls of basements wept and crumbled inward.

Still. it felt like no thing to be worried.

Fill the jugs and bathtubs just to be safe.

 

One year ago tonight the winds they trapped me.

He worried of our safety past the kitchen.

A rotting maple put the back in peril.

He sat and stared out front into the darkness,

while trees turned into rubber band horizons.

 

One year ago tonight my baby’s dancing.

He breaks his silent ripening the first time,

as if he knows some thing nobody else does,

as if he churns himself within the storm.

 

One year ago tomorrow we lost power.

The kind that runs in currents,

through lines and outlets.

The kind that lights our homes, our hearths, our heartache.

The kind that gives control of our surroundings.

 

One year ago tomorrow we lost water.

The kind that comes through pipes instead of flood plains;

instead of roadways, hallways, and then rooftops.

The kind that washes clean our hands and bodies.

The kind that we cook and drink and flush with.

 

One year ago tomorrow we lost service.

For days or weeks we wondered who was okay.

Cut off in every way we can’t imagine.

 

One year ago the search and rescues started.

For people, pets and places we have lost.

For power with instead of power over.

For what was left inside that we could offer.

 

One year ago we took care of each other.

In ways we could not ever have imagined.

We fed and lit and cleared,

We yearned and mourned for.

We carried on and then we carried forward.

…

Six months and a lifetime

 

Wide eyes awaken with wonder, slight cynicism,

warmth in growing light.

Your tiny strong surprising hands

fold your body into envelopes for mine.  

Every encounter a mouthful, a milk beard.

Tear streaks pooling into ear canal crust.

 

Many years ago a friend once said:

Our most precious resource is not time

But attention.

You have six months

and a lifetime.

 

I am constantly unremembering:

Unbearable ache of separation gone, a necessary numbing to a dull chest throb.

Part relief, part guilt. Fires light and build and smolder across screens.

Forgetmenots bloomed when? Before the cicadas hatched and passed, the sudden heat hailstorm.

The hardness blurs- - what happened last night, last week, the one you entered the world?

This is why we decide to do it all over again.

The only love and pain and loss is now, a still swirling hurricane slowly healing.

Evaporation in heavy rain- our temperate forest, overripe tomatoes, green paw paws.

I fold. Into pterodactyl screeches and dribbled grins demanding presence.  

Day Care

How is it possible I can breathe when my heart moves beyond my body?

Smiles, cries, stretches, coos
in the presence of strangers:
their arms, their chests.

Now you grip my curls in your fists,
pull me closer to feel enmeshed still. 

Or do you crave release already?

Sometimes I press my nose check lips into your face neck stomach.
Once I lick your forehead—
to get closer closer closer
than even your toes in my mouth,
my fingers in yours,
exploring skin to skin spaces we haven’t thought of 

yet or weren’t strong enough to try.

I worried you would stop nursing, stop knowing me.
Instead you fight the bottle and look smile latch to flood relief.
They go back to counting and recording ounces each day, dirty diapers, minutes slept.

I wonder what else you do without me.
You love the bumble machine they say, casually,
and later I weep.
Because I wanted to show you bubbles— 

for the first time at least—

but maybe all the times for a while.
Until I was ready to share the magic rainbow orbs,

to share you.

I’d been waiting, for this of all things, for bubbles,

for a special occasion or maybe an inconsolable tantrum.
They took it away without knowing, without meaning to, without malice. 

Still it hurts.

What else will they teach and take?

The greatest fear I’ve ever known
is this much faith in a world outside my control.
Relief is returning you to your car seat each golden hour.
You smell different.
I don’t like it.
But the smell means cleaned and cared for
by something someone floralish.
I wash it off and sleep beside you.

Maternity Leave

 

They say the country is on fire, so many acres in all directions

uncontained.

I can smell the smoke

but I’ve tried to keep the curtains closed while I nurse and pump.

While he naps and wakes. While we smile and coo and cry.

 

We cannot see out to the street but still the light seeps in

to his tiny clenched fists.

Glimpses pieced together from social media posts

like ransom notes made from newspaper clippings.

 

Time leaps as a ballet, a butterfly.

Instead of instruments there are flowers forming.

The soil warms as his hair grows thicker.

The daffodils emerge and his clothes suddenly don’t fit.

Then the first tulip where his placenta was buried on Imbolc eve.

The porch lilac buds as his eyes turn from slate to brown.

 

Now the chaotic peace, the peaceful chaos ends.

Just as we start to get the hang of it, the game changes.

Will we still stop for the morning chorus when an alarm marks the return of time?

Or watch the cardinal root as he does?

How do you return to work when the person who left no longer exists?

 

Maternity never leaves.

I see it in the tiny scratches on my chest, the waning belly bump;

feel it throb in my breasts when he grows hungry, even in sleep, even in absence.  

Still and always a vessel for another’s entry into this world and ongoing existence,

inextricably tied to my own. 

                                                        Photocred: Honeyboobear on the first day back to work

 

Postpartum

 Steel grey eyes,

Breast milk clouds,

Wisps of columbine:

glimpses of dreams that bring your smile in sleep. Mine echoes.

In spaces between we open wide and learn to suck harder.

Roll the nipple, sandwich the breast, bring skin to skin, while wriggling fingers always seem to interfere, or something else we haven’t solved for yet.

They snip your tongue and stretch your neck softly, show you to become a guppie in repose.

I cry gently when it doesn’t work.

I cry gently when it does.

In spaces between dad demonstrates the difference between a Phillips and flathead, gives you a tour of the basement and the stars, even though I tell him you can’t see that far yet.

He doesn’t believe me- we felt your heart beat when it wasn’t possible too.

Every moment a milestone: first porch sit, wind chimes, rain, crow call. we mark your height on the bath room trim in case we ever move away and need to take it with us. We mark your feedings, pumping, latchings, changings—still intermittent monitoring and wish for the day we can stop and just be.

In spaces between Jasper approaches gently, sniffs your soft hair (redder some days than others), kisses little fists, extended feet, and suckling cheeks, and curls beside us to watch over all with eyes closed. We bathe in oxytocin-doula’s orders to induce, carried into two weeks now. Then three. A lifetime and the blink of an eye.

There is a liminal space between wake and sleep where we exist together but not in the same bed. Offer comfort when you fuss and drift when you coo but imagine intruders, seals, wedding dresses and musketeers. Wake up in drool. Wake up in sweat. Wake up in love.

Smell of chamomile petals on clean cheeks and spit, spilt, sour milk. Synesthesia.

We are puzzle pieces of a cuddle puddle I’ve been working and wishing towards since memory started. Discovering emergent nooks and crannies in necks and armpits. Building this life of hard and beautiful ever after. We are still one.