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.
