Pink and Other Poems
Pink
My friend ran ten miles before ten AM,
still her legs pumped up the mountain easily.
Steam locomotives stopping only to
wait on my postpartum ass.
Pink skin flushed as she loosened a hunk of
pink quartz, holding it up
to the sky. Pyrite flashed,
while she inspected.
To help, she wore my baby around her abdomen.
Between easy breaths
she said, “Collegiate runners
shave minutes off their mile
after giving birth. More oxygen in their blood.
They call it pink shirting”
My lungs labored, inhaling
anemic air, I saw the pink rock
slip from her hand like her chance to carry.
Her diagnosis: five years past.
A Fever I didn’t know care caused infection. Feed through the pain Needles to nipples, But if milk makes a fever in me then streak chest in red, white. Later today the old woman In the red silk wrap asked baby “Did you pick your mama in heaven?”
Hunger Cries
I saw the dress hanging in mom’s closet.
Usually it lay crumpled on the bed
a shabby sheet.
Sometimes it peeked from behind
the bathroom door like a dingy towel.
On rare occasion, it flowed, glinting in June sunlight.
I tried on different outfits and costumes.
A white collared shirt with a blazer.
Sweated in flannels on too hot days and
shuddered under cotton linens on too cold nights.
My own dress appeared slung over
the shower rod on an August morning.
Too voluminous at first; a room without any furniture.
I called my mom, asked her
how to wear this garment.
When would I sleep?
How to attend hunger cries from two squalling babies?
When would the bleeding stop?
Only a breathy silence hummed.
Postpartum it was too tight. Strangling me.
Cinching around my solar plexus.
My pulse drummed,
as my breasts swelled and leaked with uncertainty.
I awaited her call.
Now my dress slides over my body, clinging
like a second skin,
cradling my rolls and folds of motherhood.
Revel in the buttery softness.
My cherished dress.
Whenever my phone rings,
I wonder what my mother would say,
Upon hearing these hunger cries.
images via Unsplash
About the Author
Rachel is a writer from central Indiana. She lives at home with her three daughters, husband, two dogs and a cat. She worked in sales for 8 years before staying home with her kids and finding her way back to poetry.
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