All The Things That Didn't

Why is it so hard to fully experience the relief of it all?

Instead of grief and anxiety I have beauty and joy. I didn't vomit. I didn't swell up. I didn't pass out. I didn't panic. I didn't reject her. I didn't drop her. I didn't fall. I didn't convulse. I didn't have shaking hands the first time I drove with her. I didn't feel nothing. I didn't cry until they had to take me and put me away and bind my arms and inject me with thorazine. (Is this what I really thought might happen? yes.)

There's grace in this and I feel daily gratitude. But not with the knife of trepidation.

All the things that didn't happen as I feared should be buried like a fairy tale villain - the jealous stepmother or black bearded husband with a raping intent - whose slain blood and body regenerate the earth for the heroine. Compost for the rallying soul. I survived. I can feel the ground again as I stretch my arms, holding this baby in strong arms, and reach toward the light.

Three Fourteen

There is no one
to save you in the small hours,
with your husband
breathing whiskey breath on one side,
and your infant daughter on the other,
grunting like a fat kid on the knotted gym class rope

in between I am silently

conjuring all the spells and prayers and incantations that I know of,
summoning the magic that binds us together,
wondering if love is enough.

7 weeks and 3 days of Violet

our children cause us to confront our own beauty, as well as our flaws.