You are conceived in the sparse dark
Before the rising dawn on Easter Sunday
He says: I’d better get a…
I say: No and stay him, my hand on his back
Gripping him gently between my thighs.
After, I lie still, my hips tilted upward in prayer
Willing you across the threshold
You are eager to be born
I am impatient to meet you.
like a waning buttered moon
between my heart and my belly
there is no more space
for the world that shouts:
Look! Look at me! See what I can do!
these are under-water words
and I am turning inward
Over my shoulder
a tide of black ink rises
my fingertips bleed raw
against the grit of sand
as it sucks me furiously back to sea.
Like how my mother taught me to fold socks
one rolled tight within the other
I am twisted back into myself
In the summer night
– the blackout so fierce I don’t know
where my fingertips end –
my waters break with the storm.
On the chill hospital floor
I pace out each step she will walk
and (rocking) (howling) let go
When she forges her way out
in blood and fire
I pass onto her
what remains of me
like a goddess flung to earth