What She Made

This is a poem about a mother and son that I know. I feel I have more to write about this topic... In any case, this is a first draft and perhaps not the finished poem.

Mother’s milk is fed to the baby
To make it grow, to feed its muscles,
To strengthen, lengthen bones. From her
Heart and through her breasts, it drips –
Carrying antibodies, carrying vitamins,
Carrying everything baby needs to
Grow up big and strong. She feeds it
To him, tit in mouth; cooing, soothing.
The baby, still unseeing, sucking
Down her body’s liquid. Cell of her cells,
Blind to all, he is safe within her arms.

He is safe, within her house, within
The bedroom, like a cell. His body and
His brain are built, can only be undone
In ways that we all know: the window
In the beer glass base; that doorway
Shaped by smoke. And through it all
Her ringing, clinging: when will I see you?
I need to, I need you, you can’t spend
All your time with her. The milk now sour but
He drinks down. It feeds him, feeds what’s in him.
What she put there. What she made.

Poem for the Lost Ones

For my aunt, who died, and is referenced towards the end of the poem.

O lost one, cruel heart,

I want to tell you that you are loved.

You, with the vestiges of sin

Smeared around your greasy chin –

Yes, you. I want to tell you

That there is a place where these things

Do not matter; where all will be, finally,

Forgiven. Yes, I am speaking to you,

Sinner - you who stole the gold from

Your mother’s mouth, the warmth

Of her final breath still rasping on your hand;

You who last night had your hand inside a till,

Or foraging between the legs of a child.

Heartless, taker - I am telling you

That you are loved. That there is a love

Which sees beyond the blood on your bootheel

After you stamped that woman to death.

The alleyway you followed her down

Was filled with love. You swam through it

Like a fish caught in a stream. Rapist,

You have already been hooked.

Yes, there will be a judgement but it will not

Come from this. This which in fact is everything.

The hand, the heart, the eye, the blade.

This which embraces you like a lost son.

Which, in the end, will carry you home.