04-03-2017, 03:06 PM
Postpartum
It's the 4th night after giving birth,
and she thinks of how the doctor said to sleep
when the baby sleeps, but she's never felt the devil
in the doorway the way he is tonight.
He's slid in to the empty space
the OB/GYN created-–
the one who held her swollen hand on Sunday
then barely made eye contact on Tuesday,
ducking into her room at 8:00pm
to approve hospital discharge.
Her newborn sleeps in her arms, fragrant
as a moonflower. She thinks of the safety
box with a loaded 357 Magnum,
how its lead would eliminate her elemental ills,
about what a coward she is and how irrational.
She's trying to escape the darkness after all,
not run into its arms like a child,
giddy at daddy's return.
The suitcase she took to the hospital is still packed
in the trunk of the car, but she wouldn't be able
to back up past the driveway's end
before the stabbing pain of the crescent incision
crowning her pubis brought her to tears.
Its not true, but she believes she must choose:
life for herself or for others. Is it virtue,
laziness, or prescription oxycodone
that helps her stay? Or is it fear of hell,
the bottomless well she'd fall eternally into
if she left a hole in her baby's heart?
Breathing the dopamine-blonde of the newborn's head
is the only sedative that works for her,
so surrender is the inevitable victor.
But, there is no climax, not really-–
her choices were made when she accepted the part
nine months ago. And the play's the thing.
It's the 4th night after giving birth,
and she thinks of how the doctor said to sleep
when the baby sleeps, but she's never felt the devil
in the doorway the way he is tonight.
He's slid in to the empty space
the OB/GYN created-–
the one who held her swollen hand on Sunday
then barely made eye contact on Tuesday,
ducking into her room at 8:00pm
to approve hospital discharge.
Her newborn sleeps in her arms, fragrant
as a moonflower. She thinks of the safety
box with a loaded 357 Magnum,
how its lead would eliminate her elemental ills,
about what a coward she is and how irrational.
She's trying to escape the darkness after all,
not run into its arms like a child,
giddy at daddy's return.
The suitcase she took to the hospital is still packed
in the trunk of the car, but she wouldn't be able
to back up past the driveway's end
before the stabbing pain of the crescent incision
crowning her pubis brought her to tears.
Its not true, but she believes she must choose:
life for herself or for others. Is it virtue,
laziness, or prescription oxycodone
that helps her stay? Or is it fear of hell,
the bottomless well she'd fall eternally into
if she left a hole in her baby's heart?
Breathing the dopamine-blonde of the newborn's head
is the only sedative that works for her,
so surrender is the inevitable victor.
But, there is no climax, not really-–
her choices were made when she accepted the part
nine months ago. And the play's the thing.