I become attached to a loaf of bread
that (in low light) almost looks like a baby.
Welcome, little one! I know my rights, 

so I can’t be denied my own miracle  
in a land where people idolize  
the face of the Virgin on toast.  

At the Y with Baby Pumpernickel,  
I sign us up for Mommy & Me swim class,  
ignoring the looks from busybody aunties— 

Yes, I know it’s very different  
from how it was in your day,  
when you drove us around  

loose in the back of a minivan  
shaking rattles made of lead  
while you chain-smoked  

with your girlfriends up front.  
Yes, you told me. A magical time.  
You wore Cherries in the Snow  

& pantyhose from an egg.  
This is my magical time,  
& it’s perfect.  

I’m an excellent mother.  
I’ve read all the books.  
I labored a few hours,  

& then I went back to work.  
Despite my haters, I have nothing  
to prove. I proved the baby— 

& rather beautifully, she rose.  
These conventional babies  
are cute, but my little loaf  

stands out, don’t you think?  
Don’t say it. Stop.  
I know how they look at us.  

Such a quiet baby. Never any fuss.  
I’m not like these other mothers  
whose babies keep them awake,  

demanding they smile & bob  
to pop hits from the 80s  
like some kind of all-muppet karaoke. 

No, no—my baby respects me.  
She loves her swaddle  
& doesn’t even wake  

when the motion alarm goes off  
on the front door.  
When I answer, same as ever, 

there’s no one there.  
Just the cherry tree again,  
waving its empty arms.