Little Losses

The woman and her possessions were parted.
It could have been that she fell and they stayed
Suspended in the air
Little wings humming invisibly
Her phone, her purse, her keys
All still
As she plummeted towards the pavement.
Or perhaps she was the one that remained
And they were jerked up by
A tugging hand, a puppeteer
A weaver’s fingers drawing them through heavy fabric.
Oh, we know the unlovely truth,
That they were all in motion.
The woman
Her things
The earth
Everything moves

We are not six now
Or twenty six
We do not live in that sweet flat that had the lovely fireplace
Or sleep on the soft flannel sheet that once belonged to your grandfather
We are miles apart
And I am here
The truth is rarely beautiful
Perhaps I am the puppeteer
And pull on other people’s strings
On other people’s things
And they will feel like they were still and I had wrenched and tugged
Or maybe they will believe that I arranged the fall
The sin is mine
And I am hungry Eve, and he’s the wily snake
His snake and my hand, tugging.
Oh, there’s the unlovely truth again.

Everything moves
The woman
Her things
The earth
They were already in motion
But now’s the wrench.
And now’s the time we see
How far away things are from where they were
They are miles apart
And I am here

Iris died and I was sad.
Sad is too small a word
For the whole world
Going away
And coming back again
Slightly rearranged
Like the sofa
Had moved
A fraction
And I kept
Banging my shins
Until I learned
To walk around it.
I was sad and yet
My ability to
Navigate
The furniture
Was praised
And my limbs
Were deemed
More beautiful
For the bruises.

But then I kicked
The chairs over
Upended the tables
Pulled down the curtains
Smashed the picture frames
And stumbled around
My broken possessions
Feet full of splinters
Hands full of glass
Crying salt into my wounds
Then scratching hard
At the itchy healing of them.
This was not so admired.

When there is no blame,
Grace is easier to come by
Than when you must
Hold yourself to account
For the scars you bear.
To find yourself
Lovely again
Does not come quickly
And neither should it.
When shame and longing
Adorn your walls
Yearning cluttering every surface
You cannot happily find room for other ornament

Baby Cosmo died when I was fourteen
They made a documentary about him
We saw his image on the screen of a 30 pound TV
But of course he never breathed
And we just saw his ghost on our machine.

He wasn’t the first dead baby I had been aware of, grieved
My cousin William died inside
The womb of my Uncle’s wife
While they were far away
Unseen by me
But missed and wondered over.
I imagined her hurt
Felt something approaching empathy
Although I was still young enough
To find the whole Birth Thing faintly obscene

And then another loss
Not mentioned to me personally
And so I will not speak it here
It is not mine to share
But I was aware
And felt keenly the broken dream of another family

And then some weeks before my baby died
I spoke to my friend about her infant brother
Lost just days after he was born
And we mourned for him a little
In the car on the way to work
I remember as we turned onto the road
With the lovely violin shop on the corner
That I felt a sudden premonition
I just knew that one day I would know that feeling too
I didn’t realise it would be so soon,
That I would come to speak with such authority
About small corpses and their consequences

But those four came before
When dead babies were a rarity

KING PHILIP
You are as fond of grief as of your child.
CONSTANCE
Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form;
Then, have I reason to be fond of grief?

King John III.iv, William Shakespeare

I love the thought of ghosts and lingering souls
Faint revenants, dark shadows with intent
I don’t fear eerie noises or the cold
Air shiv’ring in our ancient slatted vents.
And as I want my living children to
Fulfil their true potential so I wish
For silent Iris to turn poltergeist
Possess my house and lightbulb filaments
Or leave me gothic portents where she can
Prevent calamity or incident.
Much more than only dust at least, more than
Ashes and tears for my lost innocent.
I still hold on despite advice and proof,
Can one let go of nothing? Empty air,
Would she drift off to haunt another womb
If I moved on and left her memory there?
I’m ever fondly constant in my grief,
It must go on, it must go on for her,
There is an odd betrayal in relief,
That loyal in my love I shall abjure.

I made a hole
Or at least tried to
Pushed a pin
In
Tried to pierce skin
I was nine.
I bartered with my mother
A clean room for a clean wound
A shiny ball, a sterilised silver stud
The issue of her womb grown
Decorated.

I made me whole
Or at least tried to
Hung gold
From
Old holes, lobes
I am fine.
I bartered with my conscience
A full hole for an empty pocket
A shiny plague, a burnished locust earring
The issue of my womb gone
Yet I am decorated.

Every baby’s legacy is
A pain memory
A stripe of it
An agony
A gash
An iron taste
A bloody injury
But for you, small thing
I wish it were not so
You had no time
To be other than
The wound
And there’s my loss
It cannot be redeemed
I long to take revenge
But against whom?
Those others
With their willing wombs
They do not see
The cost
The price of you in me
My seed
My seed grown big
But nothing more
You did not bloom
I want to spit and
Stub my toe and
Chew my skin
A thousand petty hurts
I dream of open veins
Yet life goes on
Years, years
Years pass and
Other hurts appear
I welcome them to aid
The other pain
To feel reborn
To birth my grief again
And bring you back
But you are gone
Just crumbs of you remain.

My tired has a memory.

My mouth, thick, reminds me of
Little bodies wanting, bleating
The faint perfume of last month’s virus,
Head heavy on the earth beside their beds.
Or of the lack of her.
Wanting little bodies, weeping
Awake, awake at 2am, 3am
Eyes staring, burning

I was a little body too.
And tired in it.
Asleep across a plastic airport seat.
My parents expressionless in greenish light.
My brother on his belly on the floor with
A purple-grey dinosaur
My sister, littler still, her small hand flexing
Breast and wanting more.

Perhaps
One day
I will fondly recall
Wheelie cases
Food in miniature
Unfamiliar bed linen
Red-eye-long-haul
Rushing, rushing
Taxis In the rain
Little faces at the window
Waving – going –crying – returning
To the glee of
MUMMYMUMMYMUMMYMUMMY

And in the tired ache of old bones
I’ll forgive the me who sought
Exhaustion
Who crammed life in to every second
Every fucking second
Even now here
Car, plane, train, tube, train
And still I write
No rest for me
Just the joy of tired
And my memory.

When I was little
Or at least little enough
That the memory
Is tea coloured and slightly speeded up
My father
Brought home some
Solid carbon dioxide or dry ice or card ice
Beloved by rockstars
And chemistry teachers
And people who wish to freeze stuff
But do not have a freezer.
With scientists’ enthusiasm for New
We watched it smoke
And rubbed our hands above it
As if expecting warmth.
Don’t touch
He said
Don’t touch
And my brain was full of

glittering spikes hanging from Austrian roofs/a tongue stuck to a metal pole/ the squeak of ice between my teeth/ pinkish ears zombie toes cold blinked eyeballs/ splintered diamond pavements/ peas and ice cream and shrink wrapped meat/ swimming pools in January/ white on white on white

In another life I turn to old wisdom
There is no smoke without fire
But I know that smoke can come from cold things too
And cold things can still burn.

I kissed you
I kissed you on the darkened steps of the Cathedral
You looked like Jesus with your long hair
So we kissed in the doorway of the church like we were on your daddy’s front porch
I licked your teeth
You touched my breast
On top of my shirt
You were shy in your passion.

I see the sadness of the world in you, my love
Your head hangs, your shirt collar’s made of lead
Your hair smells of closed windows and neglect
Your fingers feel the table cloth for braille requiems
Your feet are oddly still as if their restless tapping would be too joyful a noise
You breathe quietly as if the air should not be yours if it can’t be hers.

You touch my hand
Your touch is so familiar now
Your kiss is so familiar
You’ve seen the breast you touched so shyly a thousand times
A million times
My belly is stretched silver now, my love
Choose me and get what you deserve
You with your fool’s head, and your silver-bellied wife.

Some there be that shadows kiss,
Such have but a shadow’s bliss:
There be fools alive, iwis,
Silver’d o’er; and so was this.
Take what wife you will to bed,
I will ever be your head.

Are we fools or shadows?
At least a fool is wise and colourful
Our love is so pale now
Your face is pale
Your hand is pale
Your chest is pale in the dark of our bed
My cheeks still blush at pale compliments
My blood still runs hot in the cool of the night
In the pale moonlight.
I’m scared, my love
I’m scared

(Italics from The Merchant of Venice II.iv)

For my best friend, on the occasion of her wedding.

I’m reminded of those cards
Love is…

Love

Is

Two plump cartoon children holding their hearts in their hands
Red and shiny.
Two red hearts and a daisy
That’s what love is

Or perhaps it is more
Like seeing your lover’s chin and thinking “check out that jaw
In this light he looks a bit like Bruce Willis”
Maybe that’s what love is

Or perhaps it is in all the beauty in the world
In all of those beautiful things

Sunsets/ mountains/ clear water/ dreams of your love riding a glittering unicorn/ the sound of a pure voice and an acoustic guitar/ lights in the dark, perhaps…

Or perhaps love is found in the forgotten places
In tea drunk
Photos pinned to fridges
Bellies full of roast chicken
The hum of active kitchen appliances
The caresses you give to the crook of your lover’s knee
In the nothings
The millions of nothings you do for each other
Mustard coloured love
Drab and unassuming
Modestly clothed in everyday garments

For you, today, I wish for all of love

Shiny red hearts and tea/ clean socks and sunbeams/ photographs/ wild dreams/ hours of love for the crooks of your knees/ love that gleams

Love that is wrapped in winter wool and only revealed to your one
Your chosen one
Who peels away each knitted layer to the soft and pale part of you that’s just for them.