How fraught this word with its 'gh'
appearing to
snag like a 'g' should
then at the last
minute letting the air
through like
the
door
to the gate left
open when she
should be inside
on her bed listening
to Axel Rose and
doing her science
homework or
like a
window left open for cigarette smoke –
see! there's a
'g' right there doing what
a 'g' ought to –
jagged little thing –
catching at the
throat
like smoke does
when you're not used to it,
in no time at
all
our smooth babies
chuckling
like eggs on the
boil
are snagging on
all sorts of things
that ‘g’ getting
in the way again when they
ought to
surely, be able
to find their way through
and around
obstacles like water does,
but no, there
they are: words
like prickles, like
bruises and cuts,
more than we
could never imagine, or,
worse, a ravaged
interior –
that 'g' again
of a different sort
jagged like a
knife this time, like an
auger
fighting its way
into the soil, like a breath taken
when breath is
hard to take,
no, stand aside,
we cannot go there
not on our own,
not like this for we mothers
will always be
new mothers on hard sheets
babies at our
breasts squeaky as silk
our bodies
pouring forth
in a
way that speaks of libation and sacrifice
which brings up
that word at last:
augur.
But it’s no
good. I can't
do anything with
it, can’t foretell how
it will be for
us or for them, but particularly for her.
All we can wish
for is that this daughter
is safe in her
bed, the one
with tie-dyed
pillows and cinnamony sheets
and posters of
Marilyn – or better
the one with the
pink and orange satin
heart pillow and
Little Mermaid book
and the door
open a crack, just a crack,
so we can stand
there and simply
adore her.
By Mary McCallum
And do check out the fabulous Tuesday Poem at the hub - by a UK poet this week - selected by Janis Freegard. And a raft of fab poems can be found in the TP sidebar too.
