By Meghan Harrison
I.
Day one.
The thirst is unquenchable, the throbbing untouchable
I hear nothing but axe
dropping on skull, heavy with each footstep.
The tour guide flips through photographs in his handbook,
and I feel nauseated.
II.
Day one.
You must hold a newborn child with a distinct delicacy.
You must cradle their neck so their chin doesn’t rest
on their chest, doesn’t choke them
in their own sleep. Though these 9 pounds of flesh and blood and bones
just tore through the very center of your being, you must pretend
you are unchanged; you must assure everyone you are still
hinged. You do not mention the blood that covered the baby, covered
the bed, covered
your hands. Instead, a midwife gently scrubs your fluids
off him while you take a shower so hot your flesh sears pink.
III.
Day two. The headache lessens. I can walk
without feeling the beating of my heart in the veins
of my skull. I almost feel normal.
Today we begin hiking.
We smile for a photo.
The sign reads, Bienvenidos Santuarios Historico de Machupicchu.
The trail is dusty, the sun burns my shoulders,
and my backpack weighs heavy. We are rewarded
with plates full of fresh Peruvian avocados, thinly
sliced cucumbers, and salty potato wedges.
Our tent is set and our beds are made for us.
It is the Luxury Tour after all. We watch
the sun pull red, and we sleep soundly.
IV.
You bring the baby home, and you are newer
than he is. You are blind and deaf to anything
but his squalling. You don’t know what you’re doing
but something like intuition or inherited
feminine knowledge pulls him to your breast, your nipples
cracked and scabbed over. The weight that once hung
from your front, now aches in your back, as you sway
and sway
and sway
and sway.
Holding your sandwich in one hand, you eat standing up. You hear
his cry in your sleep, and jolt awake in the dark.
V.
On the third day, we climb until we reach the 14,000 foot peak.
It is not a direct route. The trail curves
around the stream of the jungle, cascades down
into the valley, and hikes up hundreds of crumbling, ancient stairs.
The weather turns cold, blistery wind whips my hair into my eyes.
But oh the views at the top.
I see the entire world
nestled between the peaks.
I watch a moon rise,
a blurry orb in the fog.
That night, as we drag our tired bodies to our tent,
our tour guide hands us each a jiggling hot-
water bottle. I melt at the touch of its searing pink heat.
It soothes me.
I cradle it like a baby.
