Turning Point

Sample Poems by Andrea Selch

Nipples

1.

Now they are soft, like brown split peas
too-long soaked

and I have forgotten about them
like I forgot the dogs

until, after her surgery, she rolled over
and there, on her shaved belly,

were the eight pink nubs.
So many mouths to feed!

2.

Now they are hard and larger:
hazelnuts, rosehips, MatchboxJ headlights.

A camisole is no match for them,
but they would precede me.

In the first trimester,
there is no forgetting them.

At 15 Weeks

Since I cannot feel you yet, you’re alive
to my imagination. From the amniotic ocean floor,
I watch you swim. Silently, you practice surface dives
and flips—a thumb-sized Esther Williams,
minus the bathing suit.

We are both waiting
for the music to begin.

First Words for My Son

Soft on the heels of your arrival,
a slow bloodletting, and low
in my abdomen, your pillow shrinks.

Now I can hold your whole uncrumpled self
on my forearm, your head on my palm.

Yet the world seems no less dangerous—
perhaps more—here, let me take the bannister,
study each stair: Let nothing disturb you
nor ruffle a single russet hair.

The Four O’clock Deer

Like clockwork every afternoon
they come here: five slender gray ones,
coffee muzzles, white tails twitching.
The two who just two months ago were fawns
dare to nibble at the lawn,
their mothers graze the woods,
the other stands and gazes at me
(or so it appears) in the window.
She nods her head, or bows.

Other days I’ve played this game,
dipped my head submissive or in greeting,
until she didn’t seem afraid.
Today, I must resist her stare:
My infant son is crying.
He is hungry, that is clear.

For beauty, now, I’ll take his face in sleep,
for playfulness, his laughing squeals and kicks.