It’s somehow after noon, and I’m

Sitting over a plate of freezer waffles.

Sitting, though, lightly to show

Care for the lacerated tear down there.

My husband’s wildest fantasy now

Humbled in the company of his wife’s 

Medicated hemorrhoid pads.

. . .

What I want to tell God after two

Syrupy bites is to stop his goddamned 

Wheel of time for a second. To please not

Let it go dark out just yet. It hasn’t been

Day long enough for it to be night again

Already. How does five o’clock get its

Hands so tight around a weak neck?

. . .

Anyway, I’m a drug mule with a clogged

Duct who delivers the good blindly,

But a baby has to eat, hasn’t she? I’d 

Reckon she’s more animal than girl

At the moment with an appetite 

More for milk than her mother.

Quite practical.

. . .

And maybe that’s the way it ought to be.

I can’t even look her in the eyes respectfully.

I’m still imagining her being dropped,

Her small head splitting open the way a 

Watermelon would if it hit just right.

Would I have to be the one to clean it up?

Surely I wouldn’t have to be the one.

. . .

This is about the place in the poem where I’m

Supposed to tell you that her puffs of 

Infant breath are what pardon all the pain.

Better writers than me say to wait,

Wait to write until you’re good and level.

And good and level I’m certainly not. But 

Foolishly, this time I’ll write to remember

That healing’s a blister,

That healing’s hard fought.

I have not slept well lately.

Jungling around the house after midnight like a bat,

Like a Silverback with debilitating heartburn,

Like a penguin in their waddling search for brewed coffee before it’s even time,

Like a possum, haphazard in their movement and their questioning.

. . .

Should I sit, crawl, or stand? Is the oven off from dinner?

When was the last time I felt her move in there? 

Has she always hiccuped this much?

. . .

The nurse says the hiccups this late are normal, although

Google says it could be a sign.

A sign or what? Oh, I don’t know.

But I don’t like signs; I just like things as they are.

Why does everything have to be more or less than what it is?

. . .

I empty my already emptied bladder

And slink to the mirror where

I look like a terrifying mix of all the animals I mentioned

Above -- less fur, but barely.

At least each of them can say they bear an honest 

Resemblance to the rest of their respective species.

. . .

I open my phone and am reminded that

Humans don’t share in this same communal comfort

Of look-alikeness -- no.

We have standards, of course, and 

Some of us are pretty.

. . .

I tried a filter on my face for whatever reason and liked the way it fit.

The bridge of my nose was slender,

Anything sagging now tightened upwards like a perfectly

Pink and pulled sheet.

Gold stars shone out of my cheekbones,

And for a moment I was one of the favorable ones.

. . .

It took the time of seven blinks to feel upset and scared

To exit my fake face,

Like the reality of myself was all along the running joke.

The stars were not stars anymore, they were blemishes on my chin.

And just like that, I had nothing more or less than this

Cold, frustrated skin.

. . .

I surrendered to my left side laying and read a little poem

About a redbird and her hatching eggs.

As if to respond to the neighborhood bird miracle,

I felt a tiny foot travel from the 

East to the west of my insides.

My baby. She’s really in there.

. . .

I fingered the fuzz on my jawline and I thought,

“Dear God, why do you let us try so hard?”

And it took the time of seven blinks for

My sandbag eyes to give up, and 

I slept.