My body had a floor,
and she crashed through it.
She is still so small, I count
the weeks since her blue arrival.
Count the stairs I climb
toward her ribboned bassinet.
I push her carriage through the park
cooing the names of dying trees.
Strolling through a patchwork
of leaf litter and broken glass,
I shudder at the phantom twinge
where organs used to be.
On the second day, I slithered
out of the hospital bed, deflated
and oozing amber pus. In the shower,
I cried at the sight of my body.
I opened the wound of myself
to have her with me
in this ramshackle world.