eighteen days old

not ready to be asleep

or put down

or quiet,

we roam rooms

for soothing tones,

not finding them

right away.

in and out of swaddles,

another,

another,

another,

this one.

i feel the discontent

you express

without the label,

showing a body

of syndicate

cells,

arrangements

forms

clusters

across

things

I

can’t

describe

well.

in the dark your cheeks scrunch,

relax

tilt towards

then

away;

lean on my chest

and your palms.

fabric grazes your body

and holds you

gently.

my mood does not fold

into your

gentleness today,

and you

can feel

my thoughts

keeping us both

awake.

near

names

of

those

not

held

gently

enough,

with rage

that is anguish.

i nurture us less well

tonight,

distracted by

my

disparate

selves

and the rooms

without

soothing,

without.

without.

without.

without.

without.

and the rooms,

and the bodies.

and the rage.

still.

still.

--

--

--

Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.

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Amanda Lindamood

Amanda Lindamood

Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.

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