by Megan Merchant
The child, up all night,
won’t take my breast.
Hours crawl blankly,
or kaleidoscope and blur.
The world we share is
patient, leans into softened
wool we stretch
long to dry.
I pick from a basket
of tangerine moons, soak the peels in tea,
rub the warm sweetness along his spine,
pile little graves of coffee grounds
for the day-garden,
and pinch grains of sugar
between lips
to starve off sleep.
His cry nips the insides of
my cheeks,
makes the continuous static
wince,
and I think he aches for the
close-tapestry of the old world.
I call my own mom, ask
how can I make him whole?
The first born is a gift,
she says, to pay you back
for the ways you’ve ruined
all the things you’ve loved.
The second is there to salvage what’s left.