How can I get used to this
half-lit room, the tubes, the saw-like cry
of another mother’s child? The kiss
of silence, later, when nurses listen,
then drop their eyes, sleep upright.
How can I get used to this?
I don’t miss my innocence
but wish I could remember when I
was my mother’s child, kissed
tear by tear, back to happiness.
Red bags fill you a seventh time.
How did we get used to this?
I have another, uglier wish:
To rip out all the needles, the wires.
You’d be my child again for an instant.
The hall lights dim. A mother makes lists
as her baby screams. A mother lies
awake, weeping, because she is used to it.
A mother gives her child a kiss.
