What She Handed Me Without Asking

She passed her over, went to make tea,

like that was simple, like I'd been approved.

I stood in the living room with the baby

while the whole afternoon barely moved.

Eight pounds. Maybe less. She slept right through.

I didn't know where to put my hands.

The fontanelle — I'd forgotten about it —

the gap in the skull, the thin bands

of skin over the place not yet closed.

It pulsed. I could see her blood move.

I held too still. I kept my breathing flat.

I had nothing in my arms to prove

I was ready. She slept through all of it.

Seven minutes. Maybe eight.

She came back in and I passed the baby over —

both hands, level, straight.

She's great, I said. She was.

I drove home with the weight of her still there

in my arms, and the fontanelle still pulsing

somewhere, under the thin hair,

the skull not done. Not anywhere near.