"Beneath the Mountain" by Charlotte G. Phillips
"Bringing Him Home" by Ben Michelman
The first time we saw him
in his incubator, the nurses said,
he just needs to learn to breathe.
That night, in our hospital room,
we heard helicopters on the roof.
We set our cell phone alarm
every three hours.
I’d roll you down to the NICU.
We’d stare in at the bundle
of wires. They said just seeing him
would help your milk.
**********
On the third day, we stalled.
From our beds, we stared at the checklist
for discharged mothers taped to the mirror--
shaken baby video, lactation consultation, first bath.
Outside, it was fifty degrees colder
than the day he was born.
The exhaust of our breathing
writhed and vanished.
We walked to our front door
with no jacket, no baby--nothing
but a hospital care bag and a donated pump.
A bloomed tulip
now bowed under the cold.
**********
By the third week, your hands became raw
from so much sanitizer and alcohol.
Our favorite nurse brought you softer soap
in a baby bottle. We hid it
under Charlie’s incubator.
**********
A month in, we stopped paying for parking.
You discovered we could press
“Lost Card” and scan our pass.
The unclaimed, dated tickets littered
the floor of our car. They’re still there:
They make a calendar.
**********
One March night, as we left the hospital,
I said, It doesn’t feel like Friday
and you said, None of the days feel like anything.
In the garage, we passed
a wrecked car parked near the exit.
We considered reporting it,
but decided on mercy.
Over the next two weeks,
we started rooting for it--
telling ourselves that Charlie
would get out before it did,
patting the hanging mirror
when we passed, four times each day.
Neither of us are superstitious,
but, God,
I felt my breath leave me
the morning it was gone.
********
It’s so quiet without the monitors.
He’s so bare without the wires.
Now that he’s home I can’t stop
questioning this blessing:
I steady myself over and over
to see the small, silent work of his chest.
in his incubator, the nurses said,
he just needs to learn to breathe.
That night, in our hospital room,
we heard helicopters on the roof.
We set our cell phone alarm
every three hours.
I’d roll you down to the NICU.
We’d stare in at the bundle
of wires. They said just seeing him
would help your milk.
**********
On the third day, we stalled.
From our beds, we stared at the checklist
for discharged mothers taped to the mirror--
shaken baby video, lactation consultation, first bath.
Outside, it was fifty degrees colder
than the day he was born.
The exhaust of our breathing
writhed and vanished.
We walked to our front door
with no jacket, no baby--nothing
but a hospital care bag and a donated pump.
A bloomed tulip
now bowed under the cold.
**********
By the third week, your hands became raw
from so much sanitizer and alcohol.
Our favorite nurse brought you softer soap
in a baby bottle. We hid it
under Charlie’s incubator.
**********
A month in, we stopped paying for parking.
You discovered we could press
“Lost Card” and scan our pass.
The unclaimed, dated tickets littered
the floor of our car. They’re still there:
They make a calendar.
**********
One March night, as we left the hospital,
I said, It doesn’t feel like Friday
and you said, None of the days feel like anything.
In the garage, we passed
a wrecked car parked near the exit.
We considered reporting it,
but decided on mercy.
Over the next two weeks,
we started rooting for it--
telling ourselves that Charlie
would get out before it did,
patting the hanging mirror
when we passed, four times each day.
Neither of us are superstitious,
but, God,
I felt my breath leave me
the morning it was gone.
********
It’s so quiet without the monitors.
He’s so bare without the wires.
Now that he’s home I can’t stop
questioning this blessing:
I steady myself over and over
to see the small, silent work of his chest.
Ben Michelman is a husband to Julia and a father to Charlie. His work can be found in Barrelhouse, Spillway, and The Southern Tablet. He currently teaches 8th graders in Durham, North Carolina.
Charlotte G. Phillips is a native artist and poet of Richmond, Virginia where she received her BFA from Virginia Commonwealth University. She currently resides in Washington, D.C. where she works as a designer at a local architecture firm. Her most recent work can be found in the art and literary journal, Viator Project.
