Postpartum
I saw a woman beside the vegetable aisle
– not browsing –
Just standing, holding a baby
‘two weeks,’ she said
‘a boy,’ she said
and stared at me for a fat moment –
assessing –
then she tilted him towards me
like a secret.
‘Oh. He’s perfect,’
And he was
in his milk-drunk stupor,
the kind that makes you bow to press
your cheek to his
to feel the blessed thistledown exhalation
and laugh in relief at your foolish fears.
His lashes, blue lids,
pristine cheeks, colourless sketch of hair.
Lighter than a shopping basket.
And a mother’s furious love.
