In Royal Oak, Michigan
She crosses the threshold
The bundle strapped tightly against her chest.
Mom, Dad, Sadie, her favorite cousin,
A few neighbors Mom approves of,
And her best friend Jenny,
Await this arrival.
They coo and touch.
They reach out, thinking, incorrectly,
She will let go.
Not yet.
The longer she’s there, the more tightly
Bound the wrap feels around them, encircling them.
My
insides feel empty.
My
stomach growls. The girl
Across
from me in the quiet study
Looks
up.
Hungry?
Her eyes say.
No.
Empty.
The
stitches have healed
On
the outside. Not inside.
I
hear that cry when I try
To
sleep. So, I stay awake.
The
bags under my eyes feel heavy,
At
least they feel.
The bundle, unwrapped, fits perfectly
In her arms –
Facing her, against her stomach,
Balanced on her knee.
A small cry, not a whimper, more a satisfied song.
She hopes to hear that song every day.
The tiny hand clutches at hers.
She notices the purity of the skin –
Soft, tan, but clear of any blemish.
The little mouth makes kissing sounds
At her chest –
A small sadness comes and passes –
The little mouth wants something she cannot give.
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