Postpartum Loathe

I, a mother nurses
My babes warm river skin river, weaving vein
latched and suckling
gorged in
spills of
rotten milk

I feed her
a timeline of genetics I detest Tendencies to tend to
Tend to
rage at the whiff of whiskey

Pack her
in my Camel Blue
baby blue blanket
and
donated stroller
and
stroll her through a city I cannot afford to
escape
my mother’s maiden name

I dreamt of mother
of my mother
of being mother
of a grave of a grandmother
I, a mother nurses

Or tries
or uses formula
or cannot afford formula
or pops a binky in her hungry mouth

I never bought the crib
or felt the need for one
I give up the left side of the bed
She feels like she stops breathing at night
Or leaves to dream of dreaming in a crib
White and rocking

I am enraged, I, a mother
rage at a whiff of whiskey like mine
enraged at the whines
rage at little feet that do
not stop kicking
and a mouth learning the shapes of
new sounds

When I was not a mother

I dreamt of a quick push
and a cautious car
ride home
listening to country radio
in love and
full of sleep

I dreamt of
nursing
while engulfed by
a brown couch
and a tobacco scented candle
lit by gentle hands

When I was not a mother

I vowed to disassemble a timeline of genetics

I detest and birthe a cherub