Working Mother

Sometimes I’d hold her long after

she’d fallen back to sleep, until her soft

blonde head had imprinted my arm,

harvest moon on my chest from her cheek.

Some days I’d cry all the way to work

and all the way home, I was not ready

to leave the softness of her. My life before

peeled keenly from me, old weather.

I had emails in my head, shopping lists

on my hands, a corset of memos.

Justified myself to strangers.

Argued over Child Tax Credit

and nursery policies and childcare hours,

whether daycare created criminals

and divorce. Comfort ate. Sometimes I see

them, those women still on the rack.

I see the space they feel between them

and their child, the one that feels too young,

too helpless to be left, too soon.

I imagine them sitting in that chair at some

dark hour, wondering if a part of their love

can glove their son or daughter like armour.

If their love will stay when they cannot.