Feel Freed

The father doesn’t know
If he will ever tell

The daughter this—maybe
Only in this poem.

As soon as she was born
A pattern was set down

That seemed temporary,
The tiniest crisis,

A family pattern
That hasn’t gone away.

At first she couldn’t latch,
And the mother refused

To ask the midwife’s help
Because they were feuding—

The know-it-all midwife—
The new, first-time mother—

So baby was hungry
And would cry and frustrate

The mother, who couldn’t
Get her securely latched,

And some nights, that first week,
The mother would hand her

To the father to hold
So the mother could sleep,

And he would carry her
Out to a rocking chair

By the front room window
Full of a solstice moon.

He would dip a finger
Into sugar water

And she would suckle that
While he hummed her a tune.

Eventually, she latched.
She was a hungry kid.

She woke the mother up
For many feeds each night.

The mother developed
Full-blown insomnia.

They tried a solution—
The mother expressed milk

And stored it for that night—
Some nights, not every night—

A few nights, now and then—
And the father took it,

Mixed it with formula,
And carried the daughter

To an upstairs bedroom
And fed her when she woke,

However many times.
This pattern has lasted

Long past nursing, weaning,
And many other things.

The mother has the goods,
Homegrown, organic goods,

But it’s still a struggle,
One way or another,

For her and the daughter—
What, how much, when, and why—

The lower-quality
Nourishment is always

Ready and in plenty
From the father, who feels

Proud and pleased with himself—
Also inadequate—

From sugared fingertips
To Easter chocolate.

Mother wishes daughter
Ate only healthfully.

Daughter, sort of, agrees.
Daughter wants more to eat.

Father isn’t helping
By wishing she felt freed.