Feb 21

Between The Land

She does not drink cream in her coffee.
She does not sleep nor eat her way into dreams.
She does not look in the broken mirror
for she cannot bear the sight of her body without her baby.

She does not sleep because the rhythmic beat
of her baby's chest rising and falling is the only thing
keeping her hopeful enough to dream.

She does not drink cream in her coffee for
she would be taking a cow's milk meant for her calf
and it reminds her all too much of
her own milk clotting in her breast meant for her child.

Her chest is empty without her baby,
so are her hands, eyes and heart.
If her baby is not there to laugh with her,
she will not laugh.
The only thing keeping her baby from her is the wall of whiteness
looming over her dwarfed body.
She can hear her baby crying,
strung up in someone else's arms.
Her baby is between the land.
She as unwelcome in this world as the fear
that her baby does not cry,
that her baby does not breathe.

She does not drink anything anymore.