First Days

I believe this is the result of postpartum depression.

First Days

I wake, lean over a crib,
Speak softly to the person there,
Eyeing me coolly, wanting me,
Mouth stretched open wide,
Banshee screams escaping.
He has cut his face
With his razor nails.
There has been a death,
I am told, although far away
I feel his touch
On my heart, his fingers digging
Deeply into the beating flesh,
Pieces lodging themselves
Under his fingernails.