Postpartum Depression

It's like a sound
the way our blood
rises and falls with the moon, 
the way our
faces are moved
to turn and stare
into the palm of encroaching blankness,
tense with the thrumming
of our hands thumping
infant backs. Come back!
Something teases away, was never had, and is lost.
Dribble, piss, and shit our engine,
our religion. We howl
with them, torrent of love 
and tiny fingers. Sun shines
but eyes closed we still swim in darkness.

May the time pull quickly, the fleeing be spurred
by flowing milk. May the eyes
of the creators turn black,
look elsewhere. May we survive 
to return
to the time
before blessings.