Postpartum

Postpartum

Mary Elliot

Thick in the human condition,
backs flush against what will bring happiness.
Crack the spine, a book warns that young mothers
are best kept in quiet rooms. Hands and mouths
of newborns root, hungry for sensation.

Loneliness, solitude, or peace,
depending on the way you look at it.
Prop the window wide with an old piece
of plywood and greet the light, unsure of
it, lead paint crackling under smooth white glaze.

Anticipation more than hope.
Her bumpy spine, little bones, flesh softly
bunched against mine brings my body back
to childhood beaches. Crouched together,
hunched, fingertips comb through sifted sand:

Coquina clams, buried, bucket
filled with just enough water, siphons
extend out of gem-colored shells to drink
in the darkness. My sister clasps my neck,
laughter breaking through as our seal of joy

for these small creatures—new to me—
open for observation. Look at us
now, still so in love with all that begins.
Slope my fingers down the baby’s heavy
arm: weighted, satisfied, milk cornering

her lips. What did I know about this love?
I prepared a grave, not ready to be
reborn. Asked to live, we step outside.
Leaves bristle as we make our retreat
from silence towards something glistening.

---

Mary Elliot
Poet

Mary's work has been published in Macrina Magazine, Academy Journal, and Trampoline, among others. She holds a M.A. in Philosophy from Boston College, where she is also the Assistant Director of the Lonergan Institute.

Painting by Joaquin Sorolla