Postpartum Psychology (III)

The closed box her surgeon held out like a treat,
as if to show us what we did not see:
—a rib retractor—total opening, three inches;
—baby Mixter scissors;—scalpels specialized
in bringing her to strawberry hearts—
my daughter’s stomach a fig, her diaphragm
chrysalis-thin… Today my daughter digs
for rocks she needs in a recipe of her own invention.
She turns when I yell, surprised by the bluish knobs
growing from a tree I thought I wasted water on.
Figs! I say, because—figs—unripe and unsweet, but figs,
real figs, newly visible on the leafless spines.
In two weeks, we plan to move, so I tear
some off, take them in to open. Just to see.