Except the baby is right here
breathing in my arms.
My body is just a whole different body
ligaments longer, softer
stretched by 40%, my doctor said,
He is young, about to have a baby of his own.
I don’t tell him
bodies are not ruined
by this blooming.
People comment on the baby weight
again, coming off
And I think of the baby strapped to my chest
the springtime sun right here in arms
breathing miraculous ragged breaths
and how the midwife said you are a good mammal.
I know a woman who has heartburn
from pregnancy, years after her son’s birth.
She said they change you forever and labor—
it’s just one day of your life.
How I clung to that in the silvery unreal
hours of the morning, walked
until my legs unhinged
I sat on the sidewalk,
groaning. We are made
to change like water, conduit
and rushes, cycles and waves.
The baby, she is right here
a whole ocean—
and they worry
about the weight.