I've been trying to describe the love I have for my daughter and this gorgeous time in our lives . It's such a heavy feeling, pulling, constant, ecstasy and melancholy alike. And then, in my readings of Sylvia Plath I discovered Morning Song, and it was very much what I wanted to say.
Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements. Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue. In a drafty museum, your nakedness Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls. I'm no more your mother Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow Effacement at the wind's hand. All night your moth-breath Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen: A far sea moves in my ear. One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral In my Victorian nightgown. Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try Your handful of notes; The clear vowels rise like balloons.
this month I've decided to write a book while simultaneously breastfeeding my baby and battling the postpartum blues. should be a blast. stay tuned.