Motherhood

I dreamed I gave birth to twin sons
alone in bed, no doctor, no midwife, no blood.
They were too small to be human,
and odd looking, like scalped troll dolls.
Their large eyes never blinked. Their pursed lips
opened and closed silently.
I knew what they wanted—to feed.

I lay one next to me, held the other
to my breast. As he drank,
he grew visibly, as if he were drawn
at different stages in a flip book,
felt heavier in my arms, six, seven pounds.
His squinty features smoothed—
for the first time, he kicked his feet, cooed.
He began to look like a normal baby.
Only then did I revere my child,
sway him as best I could while propped
by pillows and covered in sheets,
lean in to smell his baby smell.

I loved him much more
than his still-strange brother,
who wouldn’t drink, wouldn’t even
look at me with those unwavering eyes,
when it was finally his turn.