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.