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New Baby
By Wendy Noonan
The stitches in my belly have healed,
leaving a deep red line. I do not
understand the women who rub oil
to make the scar disappear. But still,
it is hard to be empty. Now your voice
in the house is a web curled around a leaf.
Grandmother said too much water
washes the spirit away. But you are a baby.
You can't be washed away. When you sleep,
tucked into my elbow, fingers reaching for
the interesting air, snow piles on branches
and cars like spreading mold, the beauty of it,
the possibility something might cave without witness.
Wendy Noonan’s poems have appeared in Diner, Permafrost, Bolts of Silk, and are forthcoming in Painted Bride Quarterly. She lives with her family, and works in Portland, Oregon.
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