1 Sep 2017

Poem 9

Post

I can see why Plath wrote those luminous poems post-partum.
Your mind plays tricks on you then. Nicholas’s cries rising like balloons,
was it? the boy love ‘d set going like a fat gold watch.

Like an acid trip gone wrong, like the paranoid phase of being stoned,

where suddenly you think you've got all of it wrong.

*

Someone else's baby
all done up in woolly hat, leggings, navy booties,
seated in a homemade push car made of wire and bits of junk,

baleful and sad and piteous,
the planes of its face set in misery.

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