by Kelly Washick
I rub honey on my nipples
And weep
Each new latch reopening the wounds
Milk tinged with blood
To sustain this tiny form
Soak my tits in salt water,
Pat them dry,
Rub them in honey,
Coat them in silver,
Bandage them
Speed up the healing
Before the wound is reopened
Some days infection will set in
I quake with fever
And hold onto the sheets
As though gripping a ski rope at the lake
Still, I keep on breastfeeding
A can of formula atop the fridge
Like a mountain of help too far to reach
I am too ashamed to open it. Even six months in.
How can I love my baby wholly when
My body
Wasn’t wholly molded for this role?
Is all of Motherhood so gory—
Healing just enough to keep the milk?
A battle of bloody tits?
Horrid scars beneath mother’s shirt
A fight that men will never see
Even as they stare at the silhouette
I think about how many moments
I’ve pushed myself to the brink-
Just hold on. Don’t let go.
Still. I don’t want to live all of motherhood
clenching
With bloody tits and jars of salve
I want to believe I can nourish my child
For decades more
Without all the hidden grief
Pegasus 