This is Me After You

This is me, after you.

This is my belly.

It's the last place you were safe

These are my breasts

That I pumped night and day.

That ached with the pain of missing you.

These are my hips

That held up my weight

That opened and grew,

That anchored your descent into the world.

These are my hands.

That have gently stroked yours.

That didn't touch you nearly enough.

That signed all the forms,

That sent all the updates.

These are my arms.

That humbly outstretched

As they moved you gingerly into them.

That reached to hang wreaths and ribbons and lights

That held myself rocking.

And held you as you left.

These are my legs.

That walked.

Down the hall,

Through the doors,

Into the room,

And out again.

And again.

This is my heart.

That races sometimes when I recall the fear

That holds all the love and the grief,

And aches to be whole…

Despite of the hole.

That somehow formed right, when yours did not

That stubbornly kept beating

Even after yours stopped.

These are my eyes.

That saw it all,

That can never unsee.

That open every morning here in the after

Scanning the room.

To see you are still gone.

That search for signs in the sky.

And sometimes still burn

As the pain leaks out.

These are my ears.

That will never hear you laugh.

That will never unhear the beeps and the voices,

"we've done all we can do."

Or the silence in the room.

After you left.

And between them my mind,

That rarely shuts off

And yet struggles to recall

All the details of you.

These are my shoulders

That carry my backpack.

Heavy with trauma, with sadness, with grief.

That held the weight of the world

And hold the weight of the loss.

But they’re strong,

They’re held back.

And my head held high.

My shoulders,

Tattooed with flowers

Reminding me to bloom.