postpartum

by Jesse Darnay

Our newborn sounds
a fracture,
chipping my summer.
Bartelme Park vanishes—
clipped grass hides neurons
and neurotransmitters
not made for longevity.

I slap shut my laptop.

Blood-filled
among my pictures,
I return to motion
a fraction.

Our son cycles blades
in the living room,
his breathing.

I can’t move
for the cord
between us, Lauren,
flailing.
You press into
a circular saw.
Double-hung windows
sever Tuesday’s artery—
gushing afternoon.

My shade, at seven,
pounds carpeted steps
to a closet:
his figurine He-Man
must survey
Castle Grayskull.
Skeletor can’t get in.

Your glare, rising frost,
the kitchen shocked to ice—
our child chops
unmothered space.
Your stomach flips,
shrinks you a decade

to ruin.

You plant your slip-ons,
wait for pressure
to smother your undead
loss of Dad
and Heavenly Father.

Photo of Jesse Darnay

BIO: Jesse Darnay (he/him/his) works as a reading interventionist in Chicago. His poetry/fiction has appeared in the Decadent Review, Bridge Chicago, Anodyne Magazine, and elsewhere. He's working on his first novel. He has an ongoing pandemic project on Medium.