Postpartum

I was thinking of writing a love poem

as usual

driving to get my Tim Horton’s

the words on the edge of my mind

about the invisible strings

in the sky connecting us

then I read about the three young angels

dead in Delhi, found one after the other

wrapped in postpartum love

and all the memories come back

of Amanda and Sabrina

how we loved them

cherished them

consoled the mom when her husband ran away

only to find out she too

had left them on the couch

with prescription drugs

and ran from her melancholy

smashed into a pole.

All these angels surround us

killed by the love of a mother

we give life not take it away

and so many mothers

struggle with their own breast-milk

their minds listening to voices

we can’t hear

their love consumed by fears

concocted death scenes

terror

little floating bodies in rivers.

It’s the ones we know who have

died this way

that shatter our dreams

like those two angels I taught

and still hang onto

their drawings

the little one with ginger hair

and loving eyes

the older one holding on

to sad goodbyes.

They were the exact same age as my

children.

The reasons don’t matter

when you see white tiny

coffins.

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