I stand in the hallway
screaming from my roots –
one long screech from the four corners of my feet, from my pelvic floor, from the tips of my fingers.
My two-month-old sleeps
in her bouncey chair not five feet from where I stand.
My 23-month-old kicks and scream-cries behind her closed door on my right.
My 6-year-old plays in his room on my left.
And my husband leaves work
to drive to the city where he stands at his mother’s hospital bed.
There is nothing pretty here.
My breasts leak milk
and my post-partum belly hangs
deflated over my waistband.
I call my mom;
I pack diapers, wipes,
breast pump, nursing pads,
clothes, toys, a sippy cup,
and buckle the kids in their seats.
We drive two hours north east
and meet my parents at my sister’s house
where everyone takes care of my babies
and I sleep.
Screaming cracks the bricks of my independent facade
and I ask for help.
Help is beautiful.