Apricot Press

Nine Months Postpartum

By Charlene Kwiatkowski

Venetian blinds no longer
            jail me. Instead,
they throw chains of light
           onto the wall. A chain
link fence to climb
           over.

So many hands
           that helped. I grabbed them all.

           In the mirror, I forget
to look for the dark 
begging my eyes
           to follow.

The orchid still lives
          on my nightstand.
The neighbours’ air conditioning
          lulls like a mother.

All the relatives of summer
          visited today. Sandy
books, rosy laughter. Graham
crackers dripping with chocolate
          and marshmallows.

The owner of the photo
          store on Fraser & 49th
watches my child grow up
          on film, far from
          camera shy.

A caramel sky. A dress that fits.

Every life needs a witness.

Take my scrubby heart and make it grow
             you beseech me at a castle in Herstmonceux.
We come to study Shakespeare in his native land
             of honeysuckle and eglantine
reciting lines while following hedgerows
             playing at lovers, fools, royalty
who dine on braised lamb and Yorkshire pudding
             not these flaky ham and cheese pastries.
Luckily we have imagination. We write our own act
             on a blanket spread on grass.
We are poor but the putative theory is that love
             is all you need.

Photo credit: Maira Salazar