Sweat drenches

my body.

I push,

grind my teeth

against pain

 

I don’t feel.

 

I am given

a tiny form,

naked and wet,

whose sweet face

 

I don’t see.

 

I wake at night,

my breasts heavy,

in response to a cry

 

I don’t hear.

 

It’s a boy.

 

I know somehow.

 

I had a boy.

 

And he needs to be fed.

 

I see the bassinet

on the side of my bed,

shrouded by the darkness

of night.

 

I reach

 

and the odd

sensation of

disconnection

fades

 

as the morning light

brushes aside

the shadowed vision

in my mind.

 

I grope, in vain,

for the memory

of my son.

 

But the sun

and its

wicked light

forces me

to see

 

the

 

emptiness

 

by my bed.