After all that birth, the legs you’ve used your whole life
are now wobbly & the lake where your son used to swim
trickles from between them. The spaces between your fingers
feel sticky. The first thing the baby does is search for the warmth
of you, his face a small suction cup for the mounds you’ve been
building. Those first golden drops, thick as honey, spill from you
& the nurse rushes to catch them with a plastic spoon. God forbid
they soak your hospital gown or run down your rib cage. Once, you were
a girl with two breasts like the smallest constellation, an incomplete ellipsis.
Today, they find new purpose. Today they are nourishment & comfort,
food, water, some kind of magic. They work so hard after years
of thinking themselves merely decorative.
by Danni Quintos
from Poetry magazine, September, 2021