a counting list : postpartum depression

the small slip
of the infant’s bottom
in the blue bath water

how perfection is 
an unsung psalm

the form of eggs

six am half-light and 
grasses on the hill

twelve goats running uphill

extra slices of bread after dinner
and soft butter in the dish

the infant asleep 
in five minutes

asleep again in two


I have an unpublished chapbook called m(other), and this is a poem in it that I think about a lot–I did this morning, when there was soft butter on the counter. Postpartum depression can make the smallest acts monumental, overwhelming–even something little like setting out butter, washing a dish, picking up a sock. I struggled mightily with any sense of self during my first postpartum experience–and this poem is a ledger of remembering some of the graces in life, despite a deep soul-body weariness.