This is the day our girl came down to play
from upstairs where monotone monitors beep
their minimalist electro lullaby,

where nurses rotate for changes and feeds,
their faces shuffled between dad’s and mum’s,
who sometimes found a stark, uneasy peace,

during our AM insomniac turns.
It would have been a boon those times to know
that the day when you would finally return,

was the same day when your mother’s milk flowed,
those precious millilitres finality came,
a small creek in our day to day facades

as something pure spilled from our souls’ dark homes.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    May 02, 2012 @ 00:01:42

    I feel like I’m intruding reading your recent poetry, it is so personal. Events have taken your writing to a new level…thoughts and experiences become intense and almost tangible.


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