The Sadness

The sadness that sometimes closes in after giving birth

is a collar of storm choking that summer’s afternoon.

No reason, no answer – just there,

kingly presence, potent in an asking way.

Brimful of too-dark thoughts, body’s soupy overflow of nurture.

The sadness that makes a new mother stare, November-ish.

A film in which everything is falling. O what a falling off...

Sadness that fattens on knowledge of all that ought

to be enjoyed and celebrated, but can’t, can’t. Sadness

that renders everything too much, too loud,

withering. Blank as rockface,

each day tunneling into the next. Looping questions.

A smothering sadness. Bitter harvest,

bounty of wormy fruit.

The sadness that is sunlight visiting ice,

too shy for blaze.The floes of her nose their hooded-woes,

drowning her for the thousandth time.