The Naked Neighbor

A postpartum poem for you

A little over two years ago, I gave birth to my son. Our birth was difficult, vacuum-assisted, and resulted in a third degree tear, substantial loss of blood, and pelvic floor pain that continues to give me pain. Six weeks out from that birth, I was still spending most of my days in bed or on my couch. It would take me months to recover enough to walk longer than around my city block. At six months postpartum, if I walked a mile, I would spend the next day in bed with severe pelvic floor pain. Even now, two years later, l cannot walk the distances that I once could. The thought of being pregnant again and carrying a baby in my changed body scares me and feels out of reach. But I’m learning not to be mad about this. It just is. And my life is full of joy, so much joy that I am often beside myself with it. If there are reasons for contentment, I have them in spades.

When the days are shorter here in our Minnesota winter, I think back to those early months of new motherhood. I felt like I was swimming in deep water, all the time. I was brimming, full of gratitude at the beautiful life in my arms and the power it took my body to bring him into this world. I would also easily swing into frustration at the limitations of my body. I felt everything so deeply. The physical pain of being postpartum and the pain of breastfeeding in those early months kept me sharply yanked back into my body every few moments. I couldn’t think in long form, anymore, couldn’t think of working on the novel I’d been drafting while pregnant, so I sat in the tub and wrote poetry. I soaked my aching body and wrote on a notebook perched on the edge of the bath with a pen.

Today, I want to share one of those poems with you. It’s one that I’ve thought a lot about as the sun falls out of the sky earlier in the winter. I feel more in tune with my body in the winter months. I listen when I need to rest. I walk in the freezing cold and let the chilling blasts of air wake me up. If it’s a sunny day, I stand in the light as long as I can. I find that the winter requires me to be gentle with and thoughtful about my body.

The Naked Neighbor

You either see the naked neighbor,

or you are the naked neighbor.

To my neighbors

who have no doubt seen me

naked and walking around my house

with my breasts leaking

and my stretchmarks

spiderwebbing their way

up from my plasticky, elastic

disposable underwear:

I will not apologize

as there is no need to,

but I will say

thank you.

For closing your own shades

if that’s what you want,

or for just leaving them open,

for understanding

how much

we need the light.

I hope you’re able to listen to yourself and take good care of yourself as we await spring.

With love from my kitchen table,

Kaia

P.S. There are two more weeks to sign up for my online six-week class THE MOTHER WRITER through the Loft Literary Center! Join us! It has been such a grounding, inspiring experience and I’m excited for the online iteration.