Your mother, and me

She swears on postpartum depression, and that
justifies the moping, the gray face, the locking herself
in the bathroom. She swears,

swears it has to be this way; “sometimes it’s just this
way,” but I can’t just love the baby, not by myself.

Not by yourself babe, she coos while crying, and
I rock you to sleep because she still can’t touch anyone.


Therapist visits by herself; but I’m in the background,
perpendicular to the bad abstract painting. Sometimes,

I truly believe she’s forgotten your name, because some-
times she just leans there, softy pulling on your cradle, crying
“fuck, fuck, fuck,” and I have to pull

her away for your supper. She can’t feed you, baby, but I still
remember that rainy fall morning with her, near naked inside
the covers, and I’m there (I’m always there) and she’s biting

my ear whispering “let’s make a baby; a baby.” Let’s make
you, she was saying, pleading. She wanted you, she wanted
to make you.

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