Half Milk, Half Terror

I suckle at the teat of exhaustion—
a newborn along with her.
We blink in the blood-warm light,
both flinching at the suddenness
of being alive.
 
She roots for me in the dark,
trusting I will be there,
and I do not tell her
I am half milk, half terror.
 
There is love so fierce, it scalds:
love that peels my skin back
like a sliced apple—
love that leaves teeth marks
along the bones of my sleep.
I rock her and weep, rock her and sing,
and sometimes, in the singing,
there is a keening
for the woman I was before.
 
My body is a famine,
my mind, a skittish thing, galloping nowhere.
Days measured in ounces, in wetness,
and how many times I haven’t screamed.
I build a temple from muslins and
unfinished nights.
 
The world forgets us—
our small animal hungers,
the beautiful chaos of it.
But in the deep, aching hours,
I remember everything:
how her breath fans against my chest
like a moth,
how her fingers clutch my shirt
like she is holding onto God.