At Elyse’s Baby Shower

You wake up hungry and hollering so we leave the other
guests, wandering the church basement hallway to find
an empty meeting room where I sit on a folding chair
to feed you as sunlight dyes the room gold. The carpet
is undeniably seventies, yarn like, a potpourri palette,
and there’s the smell of old books though the shelves
are bare. I notice your hair growing lighter, catching
the sun like water, and your eyes, too, have recently
gone from navy to lake blue. It is our first October
together. Last year I was five weeks pregnant and
afraid. Now I hear Elyse in the other room, saying
thank you again and again, crumpling tissue, tearing
paper, unveiling the artifacts of new life. Now I rest
in golden light, feeding my own child, saying silently,
again and again: Thank you thank you thank you.