Post Partum

By Sofia Haines


Touch my home. Touch my

walls and tablecloth and the coat I bought my son; he

will be a small blue boy, blue like paint,

and his round hands

spell out something like milk or salt.

I want him to sleep in the crook of an avocado.


Night breaks but does not open.

you are a beautiful woman

said the blue boy. Now, once he is here,

I see that he is blue

like an egg in the dark.

He leans in from a window that wasn’t

there before, kicking his toes against the wall.


Open this jar for me, I ask.

Our yarn has been cut, but open this jar for me:

see, it is filled with honey and lemon,

open this jar and you will

find our needles and thread and a mobile

made from the aftermath of a tsunami.