Elizabeth Alexander had the misfortune to have the largest audience any poet has ever had, and the misfortune to follow rather than precede Barack Obama’s inaugural address. She deserved better, though I thought she acquitted herself well, far more effective than some critics have suggested.
This poem, typical of her style, is on a subject near and dear to my heart these days.
Neonatology
Is
funky, is
leaky, is
a soggy, bloody crotch, is
sharp jets of breast milk shot straight across the room,
is gaudy, mustard-colored poop, is
postpartum tears that soak the baby’s lovely head.
Then everything dries and disappears
Then everything dries and disappears
Neonatology
is day into night into day,
light into dark into light, semi-
and full-fledged, hyperconscious,
is funky, is funny: the baby farts,
we laugh. The baby burps, we smile, say “Yes.”
The baby poops, his whole body stiffens,
then steam heat floods the pipes.
He slashes his nose with nails we cannot bear to trim,
takes a nap, and the wounds disappear.
The spirit lives in your squirts and coos.
Your noises and fluids are what you do.
Neonatology
is what we cannot see: you speak to the birds,
the birds speak back, is solemn,
singing, funky, frightening,
buckets of tears on the baby’s lovely head, is
spongy
As a poem it’s not one of my favorites, but all of the potent details are there and took me right back to those magical sleepless days. Thanks, J.