Her limbs were of lead
Attached to a wooden trunk
Attached to a wooden trunk
Everything about her seemed inanimate
Except her mind
Which was a tornado of panic
A whirlwind of imagined disasters.
The baby was in danger
From sharp things
From heavy things
From her own illogical rage
From all the things she could not be.
She had no tender coos for her baby
No kisses
No infinite love
No affection that was not a facade
For the bottomless pit of her worry.
It took the greatest effort of her life
To turn on her side
To the tiny hungry mouth
Keening for her breast.
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