Post Partum Memories
Swaddled
in an Afghan
woven by my step grandmother's
thin spindly fingers,
I am
warmer than the womb
then the
pale yellow grey
wall paper
that
seems to surround
and wobble
like the water globe
on my dresser.
Above,
I see
my mothers face,
round,
soft,
tallow cheeks,
I want to squeeze them
pull the rosiness,
into my small palms
and eat it up.
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