The Mother Wound - 23/04/24

O Child
who makes me mortal:

patting his round, raspberry-stained tummy
with clumsy, two-and-a-half-year-old hands,
smearing
a bright red scar
to match my own
raspberry red tear
from which he was sliced,
tugged free by four faceless blue women -
masks
gloves
scrubs -
and lain on my chest
while they gathered the wound.

I didn’t cry
as mothers are supposed to cry,
but I couldn’t stop looking at you,
silently.
Awe-struck
at the wrinkled pug face,
purple and grumpy,
perfect.
Apologetically pink
knit hat
because they didn’t have blue -
as if you knew -
as if you cared -
that you were a boy and boys must wear blue.

O Child
who makes me mortal:

I look to my son to see the loss of my grandfather �"
funny matching hair lines,
high foreheads,
Summer babes,
so many ways
the same
(to same).

I feel the close of my father,
creeping.
He looks old for the first time and
for the first time I care
what it will mean for me
upon his passing.
A relationship mended
(another rotted)
because of my babe.

Sweet babe.
Soft and fair,
his hazel eyes,
my sister’s hair.
And of the family we fled,
not a trace.
Not a hair on his head,
no single contour of his face,
betrays
the craven clutches
we escaped.

O Child
who makes me mortal:

Rest easy here with me.
Warm and safe and milky,
delicate breaths against my cheek.
Lay you down to sleep without me,
nutbrown hare and redbrown lipstick,
russet kiss upon your cheek.