by Celeste Schueler

CW: Medical imagery.

Body overcome with labor.
Did I dream of an open wound
the night before?
Dreamt you were holding my hand
yet my hands were numb.
I could not hold them.

I did not feel my belly being cut open
down to the uterus
but the scar is under my sagging.

It was a rush, the feeling of my body being pulled
apart to birth daughters.
Flower petals being dropped to the floor and
I pull the dead leaves off the houseplant.

Dust fills the void. Dust fills me.
Will you cleanse me?
Will you still hold my hands even though
I am numb?

A damp yes leaves your lips and we
circle them in the NICU.
Babies hooked to machines like batteries
we need to power and she lays so still
under the lights. I held one eight hours later
weeping into her tiny face.
Her tiny face struggled to breathe and I felt it in
my lungs.

Her home next to my heart her home
in our hands.
These hands numb from giving and receiving.

Celeste Schueler is a poet, feminist, and mother of twins. She has her BA in English and MFA in creative writing from Mississippi University for Women. She has been published in DeSoto Magazine, Feral Journal, Spoonie Press, and in an anthology by Wingless Dreamer. Celeste Schueler taught creative writing at Western Oklahoma State College while in rural Oklahoma. A native of Mississippi, she now resides in the Pacific Northwest. Social Media — Twitter: @CelestePoetProf, Instagram: @celeste.schueler