I am selfish with him—
Behind a locked white door in bed we lie, never leaving
The world wants him
While I am scrambling for time.
Split halfway in two when he emerged
My body stitched together, much of me left pooling on a white tiled floor
Labor of the body and of love
Blue lips and knotted cord—
Is he breathing?
I am losing hours
The weeks are coming quickly—time does not wait for me
I memorize the crest of his forehead, the slope of his nose
But it changes all too quickly
Tomorrow he is someone new
All over again.
Are you still breathing?
Two inches from his face, I breathe in his hot breath
Inhale, like a cigarette
I hold him inside my lungs.
I beg for him to sleep and ache for him to wake
A toothless smile—
Do you love me?
My body, still mending, encircles him
Flesh entwined with flesh, my skin a warm nest
My skin a body he consumes.
In bed we lie, sometimes crying
Both of us insane with lack of sleep,
Made mad by our own bodies.
Behind a locked white door we lie,
While people waiver in and out of our peripheries
I am still scrambling for time.
Some women write when they are pregnant–but that was too much for me. That, and constant fear of loss, made me unwilling to share this journey here, and unable to write of anything at all. But I am overjoyed to share my sweet little boy with you all: Caden Lane Chandani–my whole heart.