Baby
by Christian Ward
Her body is inhabited by a ghost
today. The swollen hips, stomach
and vulva, products of its artistry.
When she moves, she will feel it
kicking her insides as if sending a
message that she will never read.
Kick once for A, three times for B.
Don’t ask about numbers.
When she walks down the street,
people will stare at the lump buried
underneath her t-shirt, inflated only
by the wind.
She has already buried it but can still
feel it kicking, screaming only when
she dreams. No one will see it then.
~
Watching the tide, South Bank
Cutting through swathes
of driftwood, its ripple-tongue
slowly filled the dried up valley.
Old barrels, birds, polystyrene
nests, started pedalling downstream,
leaving behind only stragglers.
I watched it swallow them whole,
the dip in its oil black gullet inflated
as it tried to digest feathers and bones,
every gulp creating new waves.
It collapsed that night, returning everything
that we had forgotten.