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Sentimental Evening

The pewter moon’s eyebrowed guise

circles a picture of my son. A windex tear

falls to my son’s cheek, and I know
we will never fully know one another.

Message after message asking:
How is the breast feeding going?

Let me tell you: Not great. Not great at all.
Everywhere advice to make the milk come:

plums, fenugreek, blessed thistle.
This morning each stream of water falling

from my showerhead was a knife ready
to gut me. The pewter moon’s smile

wants to eat me whole. Online strangers
tell me to love my postpartum body.

They say: You are tiger, you are zebra.
I am desperate to return to the numb feeling

of the surgical theater, the sound
of the doctor mispronouncing my full name.

In the mail a medical bill worth more
than a pickup truck arrives. It arrives before

the state gives my son a social security number,
a birth certificate, a sign of arrival.

Even at my most animal I am the price
of my bearded belly, the price of my crying

breasts, the price of being split,
excavated, vacuumed, and stapled shut.