Aubade with Postpartum Depression

Chelsea Dingman

We climb the world to end

at a northernmost point. Moonrise: 2pm. A child in my arms

as I follow you through a thicket. Evergreen trees reach sky

-ward. I thought we were alone until we lived

in a place without streetlights. The sun, phantom of its own

ego. Snow, thick enough it appears

to rise from branch & riverbed. A solitary house here

& there. Red woodshed. Covered pool. The child that has made me

solace, turned from weapon to shelter. Unwieldy

against this long night. Don’t let the city break 

your heart, I was told when we got here. I didn’t know yet

what it meant to break, snow against fencepost & field.

How to enter my own waking so that I might feel alive. I often want

to lay down in the snow now. To be a little numb, at first,

as I’ve been since I gave birth & my bones became trestles 

yielding other worlds. Here, I am without

desire. This night where I wander the woods, a child 

strapped to my chest, I am no longer

ahead. Nor behind. Nor alive

with wonder, & morning.