Halation

With her, you are more. Morning now. You are
horizontal in the guest bed most of the time. You
are awake and horizontal more than you have ever
been. She is awake most. Bassinet. You think
bassinet may be the problem. Sideways, you
watch midsections of trees, the tic-tac-toe box
of windowpanes. If X wins today, she will sleep
more than an hour. X like an eye floater lands in
the center of a pane. O goes in the corner. That’s
as far as you get before forgetting where the first
X went. The branches are a tangle. She is stirring.

—

She is awake most of the time. You imagine
the treetops, birds nesting. The sky brightens to
gray. You think cold may be the problem. More
boxes like open mouths on the floor: fleece sleep
sack in forest green, cuddle-bug softie sling, and
easy wrap swaddle. There’s a book called “Joan
is Okay” somewhere in there for you. Based on
the jacket copy, it is unlikely Joan is okay. This
is a comfort. Comforter. For her, sometimes you
break the rules: she sleeps on your chest while
you sleep. Bed sheets nested in a ball at your feet.

—

You think feeding may be the problem. You try
to order more, lock your phone typing the wrong
password. Your fingernails have grown like trees.
Your iPhone, unavailable. Try again in one minute.
One hour for formula; two hours for breast milk.
If your baby does not finish formula in one hour,
discard. Two pounds in weight gain. One month.
One mouth. Eat, play, sleep. Classic ball in red,
yellow, blue, and green. Sassy tummy-time mirror.
You recall a workshop that started with a warning:

—

We must consider that, in all likelihood, someone
in this room is carrying more than they can bear.
She sleeps on your chest. You try to write about
her eyes. In the notes app, you type “large, brilliant,
and black” which you’ve stolen from a Brontë and
from Mr. Rochester’s son. You try to write about
yourself but hear the phrase “a ponderous house”
instead, which aren’t your words either and no
longer apply to this version of you. In this house,
she grows eyelashes. Growing is not the problem.

—

You are unavailable. You close your eyes and see
little boxes on a hillside. Lyrics from television,
a theme song. You close your eyes and see her
fingernails, fragile as a bird. This box is now
made with sustainable materials. ETA right now.
Your package has been delivered. She sleeps
through the doorbell’s ring. How can that be?
Fish in a tree. One fish, two fish, red and blue.
The refrains that come are increasingly unhelpful.

—

The room at night. At night, you nurse on the floor.
There is no way to nurse without making a mess.
It feels important that the comforter stay stainless
the way it was before. Stainless doesn’t apply to
fabric. You hum the lullaby about feeding birds
when the words won’t come. She doesn’t mind.
Eat, sleep, branching. You hold her and are more,
watch from the floor the world spin, the moon
finding its way, rising out of the split of a tree.