There is no infant
this time,
only my own life swaddled
in bandages
and handled back to me
to hold in my two arms
like any new thing,
to hold to my bruised breasts
and promise
to cherish.
The smell of cut
flowers encloses this room,
insistent as anesthetic.
It is spring.
Outside the hospital window
the first leaves have opened
their shirt blades,
and a dozen new accidents
turn over in their sleep,
waiting to happen.
