Postpartum

By ERICA EHRENBERG

To have a blind spot
there must be
a surrounding clarity.
Being a mother
brings me the world
I have already
blindly traveled.
Now being home
is a kind of homesickness
and the old chairs
look like relics
from a fire. Children
clear rooms
and open windows
as if they had been leading you
this whole time,
from life to life.

Erica Ehrenberg‘s work has appeared in journals and anthologies including The New York Review of Books, The Paris Review, BOMB Magazine, and The New Republic. She is currently training to become a psychoanalyst.

[Purchase Issue 25 here.]

Postpartum

Related Posts

Image of hawk in sky

August 2024 Poetry Feature: New Poems By Our Contributors

NICOLE COOLEY
The incinerator smoke an incision in the sky. / My daughter no longer small yet still I want to swallow her back into my body. / Sky a scalding. / My daughter asks me to stop saying, I wish this wasn’t the world you have to live in. / In my dream my girl is the size of a thumb I catch between my teeth. / Sky all smoke.

Black and white picture of a house.

Daddyland

CIGAN VALENTINE
We ask you where you had gone, / And you say you became blue / From when the sky had swallowed you, / And spat you back up. / For you are the worst type of unbeliever. / You only believe in love. / You do not believe in forgiveness. / Before eating, / We recite your list of those who have wronged you.

Anzhelina Polonskaya poses, showing only her face.

The Visual Poetry of Anzhelina Polonskaya

ANZHELINA POLONSKAYA
Snow, listen up. Your eyes are dead. / We know full well we’re being led / like hostages of universal blindness. / Who are we, then? Unknown and homeless. // We push ahead, there’s howling all around. / And far away we see a burning bush. / The birds that flew off south / will not return. Our Rome is smashed.