(THE BEGINNING)
Nobody told me
that nausea could last nine months, two could weigh less
than one; that my pillow would become my punching
bag, and slow drivers could unleash my inner Leviathan.
Nobody told me
that a baby could cry for two straight hours at night, while a mother
should remain calm; that bathroom breaks would be my only time
to be alone, and pedicures more a guilt-trip than a balm for feet so sore.
(4 PM, ELEVEN YEARS LATER)
I go for a walk with Jackson.
Endless puffy cotton balls
surround the sky above us,
I imagine . . .
a colony of ants around spilled
honey on the kitchen countertop, an army of zombies devouring
living human flesh.
a litter of piglets jostling each other, then
sucking milk from their subdued
mother, who lies still on her side.
I shudder.
(4:30 PM)
The cotton balls have grown
apart and stretch like long fingers slipping out of the grasp of the sky.
There stands a clear blue expanse,
a heavenly ocean,
a floating paradise.
We stop and admire.
Then, my awe turns sour.
I wrap my arm around the arm
of my son. I need my only cloud
to be closer to my sky.