FIRST WEEKS
Those first weeks, I don't know if I knew
how to love our daughter. Her face looked crushed,
crumpled with worry-and not even
despair, but just depression, a look of
endurance. The skin of her face was finely
wrinkled, there were wisps of hair on her ears,
she looked a little like a squirrel, suspicious,
tranced. And smallish, 6.13,
wizened-she looked as if she were wincing
away from me without moving. The first
moment I had seen her, my glasses off,
in the delivery room, a blur of blood,
and blue skin, and limbs, I had known her,
upside down, and they righted her, and there
came that faint, almost sexual, wail, and her
whole body flushed rose.
When I saw her next, she was bound in cotton,
someone else had cleaned her, wiped
the inside of my body off her
and combed her hair in narrow scary
plough-lines. She was ten days early;
sleepy, the breast so engorged it stood out nearly
even with the nipple, her lips would so much as
approach it, it would hiss and spray.
In two days we took her home, she shrieked
and whimpered, like a dream of a burn victim,
and when she was quiet, she would lie there and peer, not quite
anxiously. I didn't blame her,
she'd been born to my mother's daughter. I would kneel
and gaze at her, and pity her.
All day I nursed her, all night I walked her,
and napped, and nursed, and walked her. And then,
one day, she looked at me, as if
she knew me. She lay along my forearm, fed, and
gazed at me as if remembering me,
as if she had known me, and liked me, and was getting
her memory back. When she smiled at me,
delicate rictus like a birth-pain coming,
I fell in love, I became human.
Those first weeks, I don't know if I knew
how to love our daughter. Her face looked crushed,
crumpled with worry-and not even
despair, but just depression, a look of
endurance. The skin of her face was finely
wrinkled, there were wisps of hair on her ears,
she looked a little like a squirrel, suspicious,
tranced. And smallish, 6.13,
wizened-she looked as if she were wincing
away from me without moving. The first
moment I had seen her, my glasses off,
in the delivery room, a blur of blood,
and blue skin, and limbs, I had known her,
upside down, and they righted her, and there
came that faint, almost sexual, wail, and her
whole body flushed rose.
When I saw her next, she was bound in cotton,
someone else had cleaned her, wiped
the inside of my body off her
and combed her hair in narrow scary
plough-lines. She was ten days early;
sleepy, the breast so engorged it stood out nearly
even with the nipple, her lips would so much as
approach it, it would hiss and spray.
In two days we took her home, she shrieked
and whimpered, like a dream of a burn victim,
and when she was quiet, she would lie there and peer, not quite
anxiously. I didn't blame her,
she'd been born to my mother's daughter. I would kneel
and gaze at her, and pity her.
All day I nursed her, all night I walked her,
and napped, and nursed, and walked her. And then,
one day, she looked at me, as if
she knew me. She lay along my forearm, fed, and
gazed at me as if remembering me,
as if she had known me, and liked me, and was getting
her memory back. When she smiled at me,
delicate rictus like a birth-pain coming,
I fell in love, I became human.
My Improv':
He said it would hurt a little, that I might
bleed during and after; he said the pain
is worth the pleasure. He said it was his first
time too, while he unhooked each latch of my
bra without looking. He said, You are
gorgeous as he ran two cracked-cold feeler
fingers down the side of my chest. He said I only
need to relax, he would do the work. He stood
straddled above me, his whole self lost in the
dark; said he bought the "special" ones just for
us, he loved me. He called me names I didn't
understand, said I felt warm and wet- like he
liked. He said one day, we would live happily-
he said a lot.
is worth the pleasure. He said it was his first
time too, while he unhooked each latch of my
bra without looking. He said, You are
gorgeous as he ran two cracked-cold feeler
fingers down the side of my chest. He said I only
need to relax, he would do the work. He stood
straddled above me, his whole self lost in the
dark; said he bought the "special" ones just for
us, he loved me. He called me names I didn't
understand, said I felt warm and wet- like he
liked. He said one day, we would live happily-
he said a lot.
Sydney,
ReplyDeleteI respect the openness of this piece. It does not shy away from a taboo conversation; instead, it presents it in a calm, matter-of-fact way. I liked the male only speaks in cliches, but because of this, I think more of the poem should be devoted to non-cliches. The things he says dominate the piece; I felt like there should be more otherwise. What was the speaker thinking or feeling? Why does she believe him, or does she? Maybe you could borrow from the style of Old's poem: she documents this sort of time-line of the first weeks, detailing a span of feelings and responses. That could incorporated into this piece too, giving somewhat of a before and after along with a glimpse of thoughts throughout.
We can all say a lot. However, a mans words will never be up to par with the look in his eye.. The look in a mans eye will always tell a story. It's overlooked o so many times. The ruthlessness and untrustworthiness will never be measured. It's a mans actions that win in the end. It's he who takes controll and breathes life into his better half.. It's he that will conquer all. I'm not a man of education, but a man of experience. I believe living and going through strife and termoil will out weigh an education... In the end it's just a piece of paper. This goes way deeper than that I know.. However my rebuttle is always a strong one..
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