 |
The Swing, Jean-Honoré Fragonard (1767) |
Happiness is A New Mother
I never felt as full
as when my baby
was latched on to
my breast, nursing,
looking up at me
with those big bright
eyes that blinked
with every other
swallow. And sighing
those tasty sighs of
satisfaction. Never
for an instant, in any
hour of day or night
did nursing her tire
or make me cranky.
That my body, that now
took pleasure on second
helpings and creamy
desserts more than my
regimented permission
barometer permitted before
would hide this from view
was a weird feeling. I was
Fragonard's Lady; I finally
felt like the queen of my own
body, allowing myself to the
delicacies of my castle—
that my body functioned so
well, and knew what it craved
so well, who was I not to
satiate its cravings? The way
the baby latched on, stared
into my eyes, stretching her
fingers to my face until I folded
over to allow her to
feather-finger my face until
limp her fingers fell, and droopy
grew her eyes, showing me only
the whites as she got her good
fill from my body. The happiness
I felt. With my body. With my
baby. With my gender. I think
it's safe to say we both found
heaven then. Guiltless. And I’ve
never felt so full since.
as when my baby
was latched on to
my breast, nursing,
looking up at me
with those big bright
eyes that blinked
with every other
swallow. And sighing
those tasty sighs of
satisfaction. Never
for an instant, in any
hour of day or night
did nursing her tire
or make me cranky.
That my body, that now
took pleasure on second
helpings and creamy
desserts more than my
regimented permission
barometer permitted before
would hide this from view
was a weird feeling. I was
Fragonard's Lady; I finally
felt like the queen of my own
body, allowing myself to the
delicacies of my castle—
that my body functioned so
well, and knew what it craved
so well, who was I not to
satiate its cravings? The way
the baby latched on, stared
into my eyes, stretching her
fingers to my face until I folded
over to allow her to
feather-finger my face until
limp her fingers fell, and droopy
grew her eyes, showing me only
the whites as she got her good
fill from my body. The happiness
I felt. With my body. With my
baby. With my gender. I think
it's safe to say we both found
heaven then. Guiltless. And I’ve
never felt so full since.
©️ Selma Martin
Selma Martin is a retired English teacher with 20 years of experience teaching ESL to children. She believes in people’s goodness and in finding balance in simple living. She lives in Japan with her husband of 35 years. In 2018, Selma participated in a networking course that culminated in a final lesson to publish a story on Amazon. She completed the course and self-published her short story, "Wanted: Husband/Handyman," in 2019. Later, collaborating with peers from that course, she published "Wanted: Husband/Handyman" in "Once Upon A Story: A Short Fiction Anthology." Selma has published stories on Medium for many years, in MasticadoresUSA, The Poetorium at Starlight, Short Fiction Break, Lit eZine, and Spillwords. In July 2023, she published her debut poetry collection, In the Shadow of Rainbows (Experiments in Fiction). You can find Selma as selmawrites on Instagram and Twitter, and on her website, selmamartin.com.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Please be supportive and kind in your comments.