Pearl thaw. The larval hour leaking past its ledge.

At 5AM my nipples were very sensitive, straining like they were hearing themselves discussed in the next room by detractors.

How was I finding motherhood?

Like drinking the whitest goldest soda in one foaming swallow as it ruptured hotly into options, then shimmered slowly back to one. And drinking those sodas over and again until it was 5AM and I awoke from sleep, nipples ringing painfully as though receiving an emergency call that couldn’t be relieved by answering.

In my dream a creature like a lobster was swimming in the breastmilk I’d been chilling in the fridge.

Later a killer came to the door. His ruse began with giving presents of fresh fruit in a water-filled cooler.

But the dreams were thin and unconvincing and quickly slipped from me. My version of the wobbling cries the baby in her bassinet made before falling back to sleep.

Outside of the doctor’s a woman ranted: We’ll take out your brains now. You think this is a game. We’ll take out your freaking brain.

It was not a matter of believing her. Replaced. Erased. In gel encased. These were the words pertaining to my brain now, now that love demanded I turn myself toward a being so newly alive she was still halfway in the void. All voids and circles would I keep her from, from pills, from mirrors, from drains, from open cups of water, from pots, from pans, from moon and sun.

Curtains drawn. 5 AM. The larval hour advanced its white gold line.