Go to sleep, my love.
This ambulance is not for us.
Although, I suppose it could be,
following dark impulses.
Its sirens screaming of hell,
tearing pell-mell in a night
not tinged by blood –
no crime committed for want or violence,
only help arrived too late
to save us. It would go silent then,
as we have been silenced,
locked in a terrible tableau.
You, still, curled around my heart,
me having found for us oblivion.
I poem I wrote four years ago dealing with postpartum depression. Don't worry, nothing became of it.
