Extraordinary Machine

Performatively finding beauty in the mundane

Child of my mother’s child. I remember you in dreams, dreams that don’t in any way sweeten you, but reinvigorate faded memories with new color. Your Cupid’s bow, your arched eyebrow. Why do I remember you most, when there are many others? You left the room. I conjure you back. Again and again. My mother’s mother’s mother’s child.

My therapist is like okay do you want to work on that thing you noticed about yourself, and I’m like mmm no I’m fine with it

thinking my wonderful thoughts

I was so worried about my mental health postpartum and there were a few emotional days at first- but now I feel so, so good. It’s incredible. It’s just like a drug. I don’t have to go outside or eat my favorite foods or talk to my friends or be kissed or do my makeup and look pretty or listen to good music or make fun plans for the future. I’m having to make myself pull myself away from her so I can do all those other things. Because I’m used to them being important, and I know they will be again. But I’m so happy without any of them. It’s enough to be in this present moment with my perfect beautiful baby and take care of her and smell her and hug her all day. And I’m not even sleeping.

The blood is over, dirt dirt dirt and a new tree. The soil I scooped up in my cupped hands, the baby I fed at my breast. The warm wind blowing in. And what never ends.

I am certain I will wake, when it is time. I sleep very lightly, I eat as much as I can.

I contain multitudes, and so do my breasts. And there are no contradictions