The film wasn't supposed to scare,
but it did
pry beneath the surface
unexpected, peel back the skin.
Perhaps I'd been too optimistic,
perhaps the pulse of
my baby's hands, the way she reached
for the straps of on the baby pack,
the pack that kept the feeling
of being pregnant, of carrying
life out front for months
after the birth, the way
those hands flailed, grazing
my cheek, my chin, the smooth skin under my neck,
perhaps the fact that the bounce of the walk to the theater
had rocked her to sleep, that she'd slept through
the whole movie, and that at least
three times, I'd forgotten she was there at all,
forgotten I was a mother, remembered
I was only nineteen, fantasized
I was standing in the restroom with the crowd,
girls I'd seen at the ticket booth,
smothering "silk red roses" on my kissable lips
made me forget myself.
Whatever the cause, credits falling
filled me up, leaving no room
even for one deep breath,
renewing a longing for the man-boy
waiting at home to smother me
with expectation.
The film wasn't supposed to frighten,
so the walk home was fear-full
under the sodium lights of the parking lot.
I passed house after soggy house until
I reached the bright white mailbox,
a wedding present from my mom.
Hand painted lilacs. A symbol, she said,
of love, because they were her favorite flower.
My baby girl squirmed, her fisted hand
opening and closing on my index finger.
A kind of baby Morse code I couldn't crack?
I let my head fall back to view the stars
whose names I never learned, whose arrangement
I did not understand. I thought of buying a baby-book
on stargazing, then rearranged her blanket,
secured it with the crook of my arm,
and turned to walk on down the street
collecting memories of moonlight, feeling my breath
catch, hold, release,
wearing loneliness,
a fine-beaded shawl.
