I blamed you
for the way my right breast dried up
after my third son was born.
As if you resented
where he sat in my lap, a mirror
to where you should’ve sat.
My son fed and fed and fed
still, on that one breast
his eyes sliding over
as if he could see
something I couldn’t.
Me, a lopsided drawing.
One side filled with milk, the other
drained.

Even though you were gone
I still knew the shape of you
if only because you were a blackened spot
dragging along the peripheral of my eye
as I went about my day
caring for my three sons.
Sometimes I still hear someone calling
and find myself running
into an empty room.

I dreamed of you
before you were conceived and
as you filled my swollen belly.
I dream of you still
a blackened spot
sliding out with the blood.
I wake up clutching my son
as he sleeps next me, I wake up clutching
my body, all the drained places