Eight moons come and faded away since
his body, squidlike, slipped from mine
in a rush of fluid and force.
Six weeks blood leaked
marking me as one still
unclean, weakened, healing.
A season of breasts so full that
milk dripped from them by the hour, into
bedsheets and breaspads.
Eight moons and still shrinking.
A padding of curves my body has always known
leaving unfamiliar muscles and tendons,
patience wearing away,
heart cut to the quick.
The softness recedes in lieu of hard strength.
Is this motherhood?