I might stay home and empty the pens, bleed out the markers, rub off letters on the keys; render raw fingers, broken edged nails and glorious ramblings pent up to be loosely cast.
The baby would sit on the table-top and spit up milk in front of the antler-shaped candelabra propped just askew from the table’s center. A milk offering, the hind milk that we worked so hard to wring out, only to spatter it about bibs and wet cloths.
She would have many creases, sitting without balance in the fleshy soft-pile of chub. Creamery and supple silken. I could lie with my hand on the baby’s back next to my body; my hand melting in softness. I could dream that I am sliding my fingers under the flesh of my arm, my leg, until my skinsuit peels and all the veins comes loose and I spill.
The baby would stay home and coo; she doesn’t have much else to do but murmur and grasp at the air. I might finish the basement, set up the art supplies, paint the still-white walls, resume sewing projects; the baby would sleep in the fading light of the day. Four hours at a time. I might lie on my back beside the baby and we would stare at the ceiling considering quadrants.
She would play insomniac at night. And in the darkness, I could write. I might write with the baby in my lap, she would lean herself against my breast, knowing her milk was just a layer away from my heart. The baby would whimper, to stop the movements of my hands. Would my tongue stop vox parva?
It might be a great deal of work to stay home. There is always something that wants attention; interruption. I could move at the beck of the baby, stumbling across the dark room to open my shirt. Providing passive immunity to the baby,
she free from diurnal pattern.