is me, the ghost of me before my son was born,
the grief that won't let go of how I used to be.
How do I explain? That I was a teacher,
a writer, I read all the time, I slept,
I had a social life, women who met me for dinner,
sex with my husband whenever I wanted,
I had a bath every day. I was clean.
I knew what I was doing in that life,
the routine was second nature and reliable,
I crawled into bed most nights feeling successful,
and able, maybe I had a bad day sometimes,
maybe a lesson didn't go well or I forgot
an appointment, but not this, not this spirit
of failure that follows me through the house,
brushes against me just when I start
to smile, or when my face is full of newborn scent,
a crushing breath against me crooning,
it could die by accident,
it could stop breathing,
because now I don't have a clue what I'm doing,
a diaper has become my nemesis, my un-doing,
the reason I sob for two hours. I'm convinced
I will kill my son because I can't figure out
how to make my breasts work,
how to will the milk out, how not to scream
when he latches on to my blistered nipples,
how to tell someone there is a desire for his death,
that I'm not sure how to live with this,
where to put it or hide it, but that it swells inside me
sometimes so huge and hard I lose my breath
and I have to leave him in his crib to cry,
or else pull him up so close to me that his bones
could break, and I feel the tiny wands of his lungs
expand, his vertebrate dependant on my embrace.
DeAnna Jones grew up in the Philippine Islands as the daughter of missionaries. She taught secondary level English and Language Arts for nine years. She was the Writing Consultant for the Carrollton Farmers-Branch ISD and now privately runs outside writing workshops for those interested in finding their voice and being part of a writing collective. Her work has appeared in IIlya's Honey, Spillway, Rattle, Descant, Literary Mama, and others. She currently lives in Frisco, Texas with her husband and two sons, Zachariah and Connor.
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