undersmile
“Gaping”
is not a word you want
linked to your perineum
The stitches had unravelled
as quickly as my preconceived ideas
of motherhood
“I know it might seem bad”
says the old male consultant
“But it will close by itself
You should be fine”
I nod in silence
A week-old baby requiring my attention
My body
My energy
My sleep
“It’ll take a couple of weeks to seal”
he says, poking the inner edges
raw like tonsillitis in my under-carriage
“You need antibiotics for the infection”
I nod again
It’s hard to converse when you’re splayed
A week later I pluck up the courage to look
Angled mirror and propped foot
Red canyon as long as my first finger
An inch at its widest
Too deep to see its core
Sides feel serrated to touch
Or move
Or sit
Or lie
That teeth-filled hole from Star Wars
Is carved beneath me
An under-smile
Or under-scream
Depending on what angle you tip your head
Not that big a deal, he said
I see pictures of new mothers pushing prams
walking without grimace
and I know that I have failed
Floored by my open pelvic floor
Plagued by the notion
that this is my fault
Because I didn’t take fucking lavender baths
A sharp intake of breath
with the sting of water hitting a fresh papercut
under my arse
for every shower
Groundhog day
and I’m housing its burrow
Narrowing a little each week
Squeezing the hog
The hurt so great but
not obvious or
broadcast-able with modesty
Take a couple of weeks to seal, he said
It took fourteen