Every time that I get cold, my mind returns to the memory
That tucks itself away, and burrows out when chilly air
Pinches at the skin and sinks into my bones. The memory,
I’d given birth as the sun came up and now I’d braved
Leaving baby in his plastic cot, to let the water run
In rivulets, the pink tinged water circled in the plug.
But when I dried myself, that cold took hold as air blew through
The open window on the ward. The blood loss seemed to hit at once
And that was when the vision blurred, the shaking stopped
As something shifted deep inside, a slipping of the soul.
Heart rate hammered as I reached the place I slept, the place
Where the baby had been born, freshly made with starched white sheets
But now I’m sure it will also see a death, my soul is drifting
Hardly noticing that the baby’s gone. Reaching for the scarlet button
By the bed, the jug of water and the ‘well done’ card.
I had never thought of death before, but there I was, thinking
That he’d grow up on his own, looking at the aging photographs
And wondering what his mum was like, did she love him?
Why she had to leave?