Not long after trying

Casually after, I scrub the blood
from her thighs. In a kinda anti-shock
she admires me.

Our midwives do what they do
with relatively healthy newborns, with ours
who I declared an Andrew

who was slapped to her chest
like tuna on the deck
a lifetime ago

Cliché earn their worth. Saccharine ads work. 
We yearn for routine, and doubt pattern.
Shit. There will be a last time I hold him.

Forget this: when a nap's not happening
and home's shit I think about killing myself
a whole two seconds.

It's been a hundred days since I
texted Tiffany, my therapist. I was
fine in April. Nearly always now.

Do therapists ever call? I'd like mine to
like the dentist did to close my file, as if
to say, "Your teeth must be perfect."

© Jeff Blackman