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.