Sleep Training

photo by A. Piruksa

When she was inside me,  
I wanted her out, laid
on my chest, I held her
tiny head in my hand, 
up to my breast, said now 
we are completely 
separate. My body was pitted 
earth, split and she 
an imperfect core,
hot and full to bursting—
or else she was the dollhouse 
my grandfather never finished 
building, undone 
and wanting, barren 
and splintered— she 
sputtered and gasped, 
drew up her face into the tight 
breath I held 
as I’d lay her flat 
on her back. She’d never 
stay down long enough 
for me to catch 
anything, the tale 
of my own childhood
hanging above the bed 
where I’d rock and rock 
and rock her, wouldn’t let me
catch a moment’s rest, 
the moon outside my window, 
the light reflected on the floorboards, 
the particles of dust 
in the air—and my mother 
would say, remember
she is not 
whole or finished,
and neither are you, 
as if I needed 
to hear it.