“When Absence Becomes a Form of Presence,” by Chelsea Dingman

I came across this poem in Missouri Review’s Poem of the Week from the beginning of this month. And I have to say my first reaction is water, what the feelings around postpartum might mean to water, a human body immersed in water or consisting of water, relating to water in a meaningful way, especially when being held to some sentiment or idea (framed in the poem as water being “held down.”) Dingman makes water such a feeling, an instance that I imagine with no beginning and no ending, just instancing each subsequent thought while mourning a father—a father I imagine occupying a complicated relation to the poet (as opposed to what might be considered a “relationship with” is what I see). And yet the poet has named her son with the father’s name—a gesture that itself should count for something. The poem is filled with so many circumstances, and they together build a remarkable constellation of concerns. But where the poem really breaks me is when the poet talks about her body producing “miracles,” and they’re accomplished “despite me, despite // my greed, despite shame. It is late / in my body, & I haven’t done many things / right.” I could inhabit this moment in the poem for a long time, as it registers how endeared the poet is with her child, recognizing the child is of her body, and recognizing how this can happen whatever the poet’s feelings of just being present in her body. It’s a remarkable the human frankness of this all!