January 14: I register her birth,
which is to say,
somebody writes it on paper. My face is a cave.
We walk round town but nowhere’s open.
She hangs from me, small weight.
heavier than you’d think was possible.
Each night, she drifts in her basket
through waves of colourless sleep
I can hardly believe anymore.
She’s a small cat, curled at my chest,
searching for breast like air;
her mouth, its entire own creature.
Nobody told us a thing;
that mouth and its hunger
and nothing to fill it but me –
the mouth like a punishment – nobody warned us;
counting her life up
in gulps – fifty-nine, sixty –
in the open and shut (third time this night)
of her breakable throat.
from the winter we willed her into,
its lights, its forest of noises
(she could not focus, she did not know us);
colour belled and pressed
like hands heeled hard against the eyes.
glowing like pain or clouds of stars;
like blood or spring arriving.
World took shape in air and its textures;
she was pushed through or lifted;
she slavered and slept; she was still
and the silence was bees.
Her arms were Africa.
her legs were Russia. Her back was
Here Be Monsters
and though there had always been voices
it was out of the dream
world reached her;
with the cold plastic skin of a mat.
With hunger and faces;
the absence of water;
with dog, and the shock
of a sneeze.
She could not lift her own head.
She could not sit up
or eat. Could not speak.
She could not find her feet
until she did
I came across this poem tonight and it spoke to me. Shouted at me. In the words of Carol Ann Duffy herself, “this is what it is like, or what it is like in words”. This is birth, of motherhood, of Pip.