Stefanie Kirby
Afterbirth

Today I am settled into
yesterday’s bones, hardwood

under mossy soft flesh
leathered by the summers and winters

of labor. In delivery, vesseled and
hollowed, emptied. This

predictability dances
me cliffside, tapping along

the grief-silvered abyss. Here
was a convenient yet uneasy

death, laid bare in
the stillness of morning.

All is lost but
I found you

bulbed, deep under
skyward blooms.