One Wednesday evening, I and some of the poets in my critique circle were the featured readers at the Mad Poet’s First Wednesday Reading. I read three poems, including this one, Promise, which appeared in The American Journal of Nursing”
Promise
Early morning sunlight filtered through
the shade, giving the unit a dreamy glow.
I held out my arms, the old track marks,
scarred and dark, scoring a story of failure
upon my skin. The nurse blinked, turned her back
to the sun, and handed me my baby.
Oh, the wonder of him, his velvet skin, the way
he smelled, like soap and goodness.
I pulled him close, whispered in his ear.
Hush, I said, hush. I counted his fingers
and toes, hunted for hope in that pattern
of perfection, and for my part in it.
There were other babies before him, ones
who never were. Him I kept, hoping
he would keep me clean. But, with the glare
of the sun and the fresh marks blinding
as flares on my skin, all I saw was the promise
leeching from both our lives. I held on,
listened to his cry, the inconsolable
signal of my second, brutal gift.
The nurse leaned over to pour morphine
into his mouth, the only soothing
that would satisfy. He quieted, slept.
Through the window, a bleary July heat
descended on the day and I held my baby tight.
A bit of medicine dripped from his mouth.
Shh, I said, shh. It was all I could do to keep
from leaning in to kiss
the drug, like a promise, from his lips.