Maeve
She is wrapped
in a blanket with a blue glow
under her
to reduce her jaundice,
backlit like a small bough
on a Christmas tree.
My son changes her,
then lays her tenderly
in the curve of my arm.
She wears only a diaper,
her cord above it
hardened dark.
As I speak to her, her eyes move
on me, her tiny lips pushing out
in perfect circles, as if kissing air.
I touch her ruddy feet,
skim the soft skin
of her chest and cheeks.
I have forgotten
how my son felt newborn,
as if that part of me had fallen off.
Just a year ago,
my darkness black,
I thought of leaving.
And here, now,
I am holding Maeve,
her name Irish for joy.
*
William Palmer’s poetry has appeared recently in Braided Way, Innisfree, JAMA, J Journal, One Art, On the Seawall, Poetry East, Sheila-Na-Gig, and The Westchester Review. A retired professor of English at Alma College, he lives in Traverse City, Michigan.
wow! this brings tears to my eyes and softness to my heart, Thanks. Bill, for posting and sharing it. Continue to continue!