Sunday Morning
Rachel B. Baxter
Sunday morning,
parts of me are peeking out
from under my nightgown and
my eyes have not yet opened fully.
so sweet
He whispers, and I think he’s referring
to the giggles and coos that are echoing
off of the wood floor from down the hall,
shooting up from the crib and sprinkling the new day
like holy water shaken from a pine branch.
But, he isn’t looking to the crib,
no, he’s looking at me in my slipshod nightgown,
breasts full and heavy with milk,
eyelashes stuck together with a forgotten day’s mascara,
an attempt at beauty.
I open my eyes and smile at him smiling back,
kiss him and say goodbye
before picking up the baby
who is calling after him,
da-da, da-da,
as he waves, breathes, and closes the door.
