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.