Accidents

There is no infant

this time,

only my own life swaddled

in bandages

and handed back to me

to hold in my two arms

like any new thing,

to hold to my bruised breasts

and promise

to cherish. 

The smell of cut

flowers encloses this room,

insistent as anesthetic.

It is spring.

Outside the hospital window

the first leaves have opened

their shiny blades,

and a dozen new accidents

turn over in their sleep,

waiting to happen.