like 2 girls in a book.

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.
A routine.

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.

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