The first time I meet your baby, it spits up milk on my shirt. We might as well call it what it is. Vomit. Baby vomit. A spray of who knows what because it’s only on liquids right now, right? Regurgitated breast milk seeping through my shirt and bralette. Haha. Full circle. You laugh. I pull a towel I don’t think is clean from behind the couch cushion myself. You won’t take back the baby. I asked for this kind of treatment, coming over here now like this. With my nine hours of sleep and washed hair. With my button-up shirt that came off a hanger in the closet and not a pile of laundry on the bed. I came over with my man and somehow both the men have drifted away, nowhere to be seen. And they left the baby. To be closer to the breast, I’m sure — the breast with milk, not my dry breasts. My breasts that have nothing nourishing to offer. And maybe that’s why the baby threw up on me. Trying to ignite some unholy change in my cells. You won’t take back the baby no matter how much meaningful eye contact I make. You’re leaning your head on the back of your chair, shutting your eyes. I see the sleep come over you like a receding wave pulling the water out of grains of sand on the beach. The baby, now that its stomach is settled, is slowing down too. It becomes a still warm thing in my arms like it wants me to know it’s not just an it. It’s trying to lull me into love with its harmlessness, its little fingers, translucent eyelids, wisps of hair, and nostrils that move with each breath. The baby and you sleep. The vomit dries on my shirt.
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