The world is told to self-isolate just
as I might feel like mingling with the world again
I get Friday mornings off to shower, cut my nails
drink tea while it’s still hot. Rainbows in the living room
I walk around the block
collect two fallen frangipani flowers
an autumn garden inconsistency. Summer
a blur of pregnancy birth baby
two months measured out in feeds and naps
tears, each week I walk this walk a little quicker
each week things get better
before they get hard again, but mostly
there are more good days than tricky days
and never do I call them bad days.
One of my flowers blows to the ground
face-plants grass, stem to the sky
the other I hold as I write, bringing it to my nose
with each pause of the pen, sun-warmed
black-clad body, cheap kmart shapewear
holds my weakened core together
I swing my briefly baby-free arms about
the scent of good days and tricky days ahead.