Tuesday, 22 December 2009
Book Covers
Thursday, 9 April 2009
Bath Day
Bath Day
Strange how the morning
you spend a lifetime trying to forget
is the one you want most
to remember.
Stranger still,
how joy can be rinsed
from a moment set apart
for laughter,
leaving the memory frayed
like a threadbare rag.
Morning at the ward.
Women coo-calm infants
fresh from the womb.
Nurses, heavy of hip, roll round beds
with padded hands.
All morning the mantra: breast is best.
All morning they latch open mouth
to swollen breast.
I am in awe of the worm
I spewed that morning,
I watch it squirm
at the unrest of our world.
It jolts at every whimper,
jumps at every whine.
I wish I could swallow it,
save it from earthly rustlings.
By afternoon,
incessant cry and tear-glazed eye
tell me my august visitor
is a task master.
He who must be fed like a seed,
he whose bottom must be wiped,
whose suckling cuts my nipple
and makes me bleed.
Mid afternoon,
the bathroom is free
for me to wash away the shame of birth
‘Clean up for Daddy!’ a nurse teases.
That word rattles a silenced bell clapper.
My insides ring.
I kiss Augustus and bolt
the door behind me.
God! How the silence of the tiny room asserts itself.
The echoes flush me to the drain
but I stand firm. One and whole.
Then, quite unexpectedly,
pain seeps from every pore.
Yowl begets wail begets howl
for wounds that will never scab,
for the abscess of afterbirth.