In the early weeks I think so much of dust and ash;
the nub of the umbilical cord stinks. Breath given
and taken away, what we’re all doing here anyway,
how I had the audacity to birth another person.
Her eyelashes highlight her eyes— the shape
of her father’s, the color of mine; the dimple
in her chin from my side; my aunt’s smile
when someone points it out. She cries laying
in a pool of spit-up, her hair wet flat. She can’t
even move her head. Her body reminds me that
we were just one: her legs scrunched like froggy
legs, her toes pointing up toward her shin,
toward the sun. Those sweet heels skated
across my abdomen; these arms jerked left
and then right on the inside. She cries at me
and cries at me. We sway and shh and sway
and shh. I cradle her to me in the middle
of the night, offer myself to her again,
and how satisfying the sound of her swallows
in the silence of the house. Her eyes dart
around while she drinks; the little fuzz
on the side of her ear glistens in the low
Himalayan salt lamp light; her hand presses
into my breast; her eyelids droop; her blinks slow,
and she unlatches.
–
Jodi Andrews authored Skin Reverberations (Pasque Press, 2022) and The Shadow of Death (Finishing Line, 2018) and holds an MA in English. She teaches writing at South Dakota State University and lives with her husband and two children. In her free time, she weaves wall hangings and goofs around with her kids.
© 2025, Jodi Andrews
Halfway Down the Stairs 