Wednesday 12 January 2011

Newborn

There’s nothing wrong.
You lie as though
dreaming of weightlessness, with the horror of stillness in the shadowed corner.
The bili light aids your recovery, our body parts
yellow in pallor.
A respirator fills your lungs. You are so
palm-small. Breaths from
my mouth, speaking sounds neither of us understand, in your
eyes must cataract my face as I place kisses from
chapped lips onto the incubator wall. Your opened
door now lets me in. Thank you, nurse, who placed
you so delicately pale inside, illustrating neonatal hyperbilirubenemia; the
strange words as big as giants in a nightmare. I’m afraid to say your name and to look at
this reflection, shivering in the glass, it seems,
at the knees. I am
standing here unravelling.

Standing here unravelling
at the knees, I am
this reflection shivering in the glass. It seems
strange, words as big as giants in a nightmare. I’m afraid to say your name and to look at
you, so delicately pale inside, illustrating neonatal hyperbilirubenemia. The
door now lets me in. Thank you, nurse, who placed
chapped lips onto the incubator wall. Your opened
eyes must cataract my face as I place kisses from
my mouth – speaking sounds neither of us understand – in your
palm. Small breaths from
a respirator fills your lungs. You are so
jaundiced.
The bili light aids your recovery, our body parts
dreaming of weightlessness. With the horror of stillness in the shadowed corner,
you sleep as though
there’s nothing wrong.

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