rowan's birth day

he is sleeping

syrupy dishes in the sink say
daddy did what he had to to keep the peace today
the house feels strange
i don't care that the floor needs cleaning
or that toys are strewn about
the dog, the very walls seem concerned that
things aren't as they should be
my breasts are boulders full of milk, oh they hurt...
i am not in my head
nor am i in my body as i imagined, crushed
and weeping, shaking
i am moving, doing, talking, but barely thinking
my autopilot is on
mercy... mercy comes at me from the shadows
leaving a sigh and a sweet, familiar smell in her wake
mercy is a warm, soft hand in which my spirit curls up
and sleeps deeply
while the rest of me keeps moving, doing, talking
my heart is outside of my body
lying in a crate (as micah calls them)
tended to by strangers... but i love them
i want them to hold me
strangers in my territory
fluids coursing in through sterile plastic tubing
air pumped by a machine
made by a stranger in a foreign land
now working as my son's lungs
stretching, opening

the chair could be more comfortable
but i would sleep on a bed of nails to be near him

the sun streams through the weirdly tinted window
fast-food breaskfast turns and churns in my stomach
his eyes are open now
the machines are gone
the tubes are gone
it's just him, his skin
and my body aches for his
with the quaking limbs of a new mother in ecstasy
i sit with my arms outstretched
and from the joy and relief with which
i receive him at my breast
you would think we had been separated for a lifetime
but we were never apart
it was me in that crate



i love you, rowan. happy birth day, sweet son of mine.

-hannah