Maternity Leave
My husband brings the baby and a kiss
to where I lie in milk-wet sheets,
ripe as a pomegranate,
slick and sweet.
Hello, little slippery mouth, hello
my blind little fish, right here
my squirming one,
all searching lips and squinched eyes,
limp as soon as he latches,
cheek and eyelid beaded with milk.
Already the air at the screen
is heavy and still, the light tinged
green by new leaves.
Look at me lounging, an odalisque.
At last the baby heaves himself off
the breast with a satisfied smack
and lolls into a milk-drunk stupor.
I hear my husband’s car
pull out of the driveway,
and then the neighbor’s car,
the one with the noisy muffler,
starts up and drives away.
Everyone’s busy but me.
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