I

My skin chilled through my nightgown,
as I sat on the edge of the porcelain tub.
Saturated in pee, the test stewed
for exactly three minutes.
I fumbled for my glasses.
I thought I had misread it.
I was beaming.

II

My feet and face swelled.
My heart crescendoed when he kicked.
I waddled, clad in my unbuttoned coat,
following my stretched drum belly,
humming, and crunching the ice
under my sensible shoes.
I was glowing.

III

My muscles tightened. Growing
between coached breathes for 17 hours.
Backwards and kneeling,
I pushed
until my calves turned purple
and Jason worried.
I was strength.

And then there he was. Oliver
still didn’t feel like his name.
His long wrinkly baby feet
squirming
against my hollow belly as he
latched. His earlobes were still fuzzy.
I was primal.

IV

My nipples cracked and bled
feeding the sharp gummed child
looking up at me.
My shirts, all milk stained and forgotten
in the growing mounds of laundry.
I yawned stale coffee into the early morning.
I was magical.

V

My body is a deflated balloon,
forever reshaped.
He burrows into me and asks to be rocked.
His lanky toddler legs drape down my side.
My muscles ache, but he smells like baby shampoo
and he asks me to sing.
I am the world.