Trying Again

We've told him all about the hospital. He's excited.
I sit him on my lap in the dark as Meg lies down
to have her stomach gelled. There on the screen,
an uncharted island. On the first fly-by,
clouded glimpses of landmarks and boundaries,
then swooping lower, seeking texture and movement.
"No heartbeat yet. Perhaps it's earlier than you thought".
"Where baby dadda?", says Sam, "Where KidPix?"

* * *

Another sleepless night for me,
but she's unworried - still sick each morning
and her breasts hurt more than ever.
Sam starts crying. My turn tonight.
I kneel beside him, getting cold.
He pats his pillow where I should put my head.
How would we cope with another like him?
Back in bed I cry myself asleep.

* * *

Another scan. No sign of a beacon,
no runway - we can see that for ourselves.
Meg thought she'd be ok, but she cries
when she's led back through a different door.
I rush back to the crowded waiting room,
collect her coat that she'd forgotten,
then catch her up in the corridor,
a nurse's arm round her shoulder.

* * *

We visit her that evening. A private room.
She saw some blood, that's all.
The gas made her laugh for minutes on end.
She's binned all the help numbers.
She hates the food. They might let her out tonight.
Sam looks at the blank TV screen. "Where baby?",
he says, hands out wide, palms up. He helps himself
to the hospital meal; I'd forgotten to feed him.

* * *

They said wait 3 months, but her womb's recovered
and Sam was just scared of the dark.
We hold each other after unbroken love,
knowing now how easily we can fail,
how many friends failed secretly before.
She talks about them in the landing light's glow
as I leak from her like words I wish I'd said,
a sudden coldness on my thigh.

Tim Love

I must be getting middle-aged, I guess. My hippy clothes are now his fancy dress.

If you've any comments on this poem, Tim Love would be pleased to hear from you.
His poetry site is at: www2.eng.cam.ac.uk/~tpl/lit.html