Baby Blues (Poetry)

He’d been hammocked in her belly for so long
his sudden exit threw her into shock —
she’d stared, uncomprehending, couldn’t touch
this squalling, blotchy being, wet and small.

She didn’t hate him, couldn’t feel at all;
wrapped the lumpy parcel, snuck him back
and hid him like a puppy in her room;
guessed that she would manage — others did.

She fed him from her body, bore the feel
of closeness like a punishment, a trial;
accepting guilt — for here was living proof —
her burden, so demanding, chained her down.

Love had been still-born but flesh survived;
at night the walls closed in and held his noise —
he wouldn’t let her sleep — and, overhead,
the landlord banged and yelled obscene advice.

She didn’t mean to kill him, it was just
blind desperation made her action rough:
she shook him, felt his bird neck snap — head back
and lolling, peaceful — gaping cries cut off.

Nothing to be done, she stroked his face —
more mother to this doll he had become
in death — and kissed him, sorry, calmer now;
wondering if she’d saved him after all.

Better this than life on no-hope street —
what future was there here? Too few broke free
and got away. She held him as she found
a vein and let the needle be her friend.