Seven Pounds, Two Ounces, Nothing

They handed her to me. The room arranged

itself—that lean, those smiles, the collective wait.

I smiled back. Felt immediately estranged

from my own expression. She was great,

they said. Seven pounds two ounces. Her skull

soft under my palm, that specific give

between the plates of bone. I felt the pull

of nothing. Held her anyway. You live

through the right motions. I said precious.

Said look at those hands. Someone took a photo.

The ceiling light was very bright. Specious

warmth from me—I tried, though. I don't know

what I was waiting for. She slept.

I gave her back. Drove home with the radio

off. Parked. Sat in the car. I kept

my hands on the wheel a while. The slow

dark came down. My hands still smelled like hospital.

I thought about going in. Sat there.

The parking lot was wet. The residual

smell of antiseptic in the cold air.