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Broken

Tamara Belko

There’s a flutter in my chest,
a throbbing pulse
of anxiety in my throat

Sometimes it’s so hard to see
beyond the plethora of pills
neatly arranged in their Monday
through Friday compartments,
especially through the fog
of postpartum hormones,

It’s so hard to reconcile my desire
for well being with my body
pumped full of pharmaceuticals
that prevent me from nourishing
my baby.

My milk is tainted. If only
i could discard those tiny capsules.

Sometimes it is so hard to see i am
more than an unresolved condition,
more than an aberration
more than a fractured heart.

Sometimes i am just broken.

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