Rachel Barenblat

At four in the morning
my body is sleep-heavy
but my heart
isn’t an imploded star.
 
Breakfast tastes good
again, oatmeal
for my milk supply, Clementine
like a handheld sun.
 
I choose music
over silence, the baby’s
Shar-pei soft head
beneath my palm.
 
My eyes still sting
sometimes, the wide world
reduced to the nursery,
the living room couch.
 
My pill bottle rattles.
Blessed are you
who revives the deadened
,
I say, and swallow hard.