Half Made in Blood and Bone
a quarter orbit
to your first sunrise,
you know only
the need to hold
and, neither clear where
one might end, the other
begin, you scrape
your hours-new fingers
on cheeks and fists
then sleep. I cut
your nails but this
boundary of skin
and hardness not yet
written, I spill you,
this pain just
Outside the Postnatal Ward
Beyond the turquoise door, the hand sanitiser and dire warnings,
beside the intercom we don’t quite trust to keep us safe, we pause
like four-year-olds paying for their own sweets,
a teenager in the driving seat for the first time.
Along the corridor, where we don’t see
the pictures of County Durham or the respite seating
people march or trudge, glance at the car seat which might
at any moment take off in a breeze and be lost.
Our feet barely touch light-clean floors.
The squeak of her tiny breathing is grabbed in a rush of outside
as all our fists grip air.