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.