This was intended to be a joke poem, until it mostly wasn’t. I hate it when that happens.
Sat over the spot where I
so inconveniently childbirthed,
it keeps my feet.
In sore and sorry two o’ clocks
and breathless midnights
I soak in baby warmth,
dandle fingers, push my toes in
and wriggle. And there, first sentences
triumphantly aloft and there,
first smiles like sunbursts;
the angry tears I tried to muffle
and those I didn’t.
Footnote: unbaptised, yet,
by pee. Which is