The Postpartum Well by

Antonio Igbokidi

It was the color of dawn. Chilled grass tips pranced about the morning lawn, Giggling at the rising sun.

The reverberation of our baby’s giggle Engulfed our home like a full moon. Bloody,

Like how red vessels seep through your eyes from lack of sleep, Lack of oxygen, and lack of moments to breathe.

For a moment — I forget how much of a blessing our baby is, Because of the pain that you are in.

Pain that cannot be seen and only vaguely understood by onlookers. Cousins of confusion are squatters in our walls the nights that she squeals the best. Feeding and nourishment are times that reflect your frustration the most.

You scorn at your body for being ornamental — a dried manger, Instead of a cup overflowing.

Can’t you see that you’ve brought life into the world?

You’ve poured your blood to crowning — crowning to cord — cord to placenta Generated a galvanic world in your belly and merged her atmosphere with ours now Our lives circulate around and through her lungs. You’ve put the breath of life into our existence.

Yet to you, your stretch marks do not reflect a championing of miracles

They reflect battle scars, Your tears of not good enough— Your cackles of self-deprecation— Your somber thoughts of no longer belonging to unconditionality.

Can’t you see that you’ve brought life into the world? When you— alone — are all baby and I need. Until grass tips no longer prance in the dawn, Until the waters run dry.