Meeting mothers at the mothers meetings,
finding each other, there online,
Night support,
Sharing war stories,
Torn and refashioned histories,
Most have dips of depression,
Deep conflicting feelings of love and loss,
Seas crossing,
Creating tidal waves,
Out from land, without oars,
No knowing if we can get back to before,
A reckoning,
Because probably not.
No sleep,
Body newly stiched,
Even after a heavenly birth,
Free from instruments and intervention,
New mothers, with full arms,
Prodded the mirror, their wasitlines,
Dusted the floor with fingertips,
Traced their shadow,
Always, only, ever,
One arm free.
The neck that used to roll is now crooked,
Ears that prickled overhearing delicious stories,
Now stay cocked for the siren cry,
Am I a shit mum if I don’t know hungry from tired,
The internet captures all our insecurities and secrets.
No one knows the difference between a newborns hungry and tired,
Especially not the new born.
Woke on No sleep 