Afterbirth
Copyright (c) 1994, Debbie Burns
All rights reserved



 Afterbirth
 ----------
 by Debbie Burns



 --April--
 
 I packed you away in a box and pushed you to the back of a closet,
 but I could not lose you. My Maggie looks at me with your eyes; my
 Kate touches me with your fingers.
 
 At the moment of conception I laughed with the joy of loving you. At
 six months our daughters too laugh-- gummily, heads thrown back,
 tiny hands clutching a dog-eared Daddy:  your photograph with its
 frozen smile.
 
 Someday you will meet them, these twins of our creation. You will
 look at Maggie with her eyes; you will touch Kate with her fingers.
 And I, I will weep with the joy of losing you.
 
 --June--

 The fantasy gave way to reality: I wept but could not lose you;
 could feel my marrow gelling, instead, wanting to fit my bones into
 the mold of yours. Maggie and Kate--more mine than yours, but ours,
 nevertheless-- think you're a weekend playmate.  Daddy.
 
 I gave you these children; I bear the scar to prove it-- a six-inch
 red line searing my abdomen. It hurts rarely now, only when tiny
 feet kick in impatience to be rid of imprisoning arms and late at
 night when I imagine you breathing beside me. Turning to face you, I
 see that you're not. That's when the wound gapes inside of me,
 opening to my womb, where it all began.
 
 --October--

 My life swirls with two dirty diapers in the toilet. A year now of
 being nothing more than a glorified nanny, not even the dignity of
 wife and mother. Next year, you say, next year I'll marry you.
 
 He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me . . . we've been this
 route before.
 
 A ring on my finger and a bell through my nose. What do you think I
 do all day, Daddy dearest, while you live at college-- watch soaps
 and paint my toenails? I scream, I cry, I wipe noses and asses and
 thank god my punishment wasn't triplets.
 
 Do you know what I do, the days nothing goes right? When the
 one-sided conversations turn into screaming bouts? When food is on
 the ceiling and blood has flown more than once, when the tantrums
 last longer than the giggles? Those are the days I curse you and my
 overproductive ovaries.