The song of her screaming in our heavy soundproof
room: there
has never been a baby till
today—we all know it—she is
the first despite the supply closet packed to the
ceiling
with pink and blue striped caps and green
rubber pacifiers and white
swaddle blankets in sealed saran-wrapped packets. The
first and
the only despite the nursery
boxes of babies beat up and
bruised from delivery, the baby with a thick beard
around
her chin, the Corvette twins sharing
one plastic crate, a huddled pair
conspiring. Staff keeps calling me a sister, but
the Dads
by the ice chip fridge can tell. Ghosts
enter and exit our room all
day; the TV teaches us how to nurse. The first
baby
in the world stares at her fingers,
then sticks them into her eyes. She
is skeptical, reproachful, offended at all
the light.
The night nurse chides me for sleeping
with her on my chest, cautioning
the crushing risks. I needed no reminder—I,
newly
crushed myself. Watching her befriend
every shadow tracing the wall.
Alyse Knorr is a queer poet and associate professor of English at Regis University. She is the author of three poetry collections, a non-fiction book, and three poetry chapbooks. Her work has appeared in The New Republic, POETRY Magazine, Cincinnati Review, The Georgia Review, and ZYZZYVA, among many others. She is a co-editor of Switchback Books.