like fruit on a windowsill.

ripen quietly

Here I am, boys–revived,
back from the brink, resuscitated
and revitalized. My blonde hair buoyant.
My new breasts, pneumatic.

“Want to come to my funeral?” I asked my husband.

You first emerged, twinning your sister–
two small bumps, dark pink and sore,

pressing against my flannel pajama top.
I covered you both with a flat, triangle

training bra and waited.