My baby angel has been crying at daycare. I’ve been crying at work. She would cry when I drop her off in the morning. When I call her daymother during the day, I could hear her crying in the background. She’d be crying when I pick her up, until I would hold her in my arms and wipe those tears.

It made me write this:

My world has moved, yet my desk hasn’t noticed my metamammamorphosis

My desk becomes a door to a city of endless, grey streets
through which I wander bleary-eyed
all day long while

my heart searches and searches
“Where is my baby angel? Where is she?”

my ears remain pricked-up
“Do we hear her calling?”

my empty arms hunger for her warm softness

my breasts weep with yearning


The hours drag their feet

Finally, I get to take her from the other woman!

Here she is! She is safe.

I bury my mouth in her wispy baby shampoo hair

I draw the curtain on the world and her thirsty lips find me

She moulds onto me, we melt into each other

I’m whole again

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