Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

     Yes, yes, this is right.  This nakedness, this straining flesh.  He and I, come full circle ....

     .... And I’m coping.  He’s here, and we’re getting somewhere.

     He arrived just an hour ago, as they wheeled me into the delivery room.  I was having a contraction, and I bawled at him.  Only with relief;  I was so scared he wouldn’t come.  These last weeks he’s blown wild and tame.  Didn’t see him at all over the weekend.  Out both nights, his sister says, not home till morning, stinking of beer.  But then, round to me Monday evening, irresistible on the doorstep, smiling his easy, blue-eyed smile.  Pressed his hands against my lump - our lump, his fierce hands said - and kissed me, hard, on the lips.

     But he’s made no commitment;  whim brought him here today.

     The nurses are like cheerleaders.  ‘Push, push’, they cry ....

     .... God.  But better that time.  Less in my throat.

     A strange calm, this in-between time.  The whole room pulls back, waiting for me.  I feel myself regather.

     I remember telling him I was pregnant.  Outside his work, in the street, a blurted, throw-away line.  How did I do it?  He was a stranger.  He was.  I knew his body, God, his sweet body, but he, he was a stranger.

     I look back at myself, and marvel.  So besotted, but so brave too, so determined.

     Here it comes.  In my chest first, the edge of a relentless weight ....

     .... Oh, the power of it.  If this force were harnessed, if we could summon it at will ....

     He never doubted the baby was his.  Some men would have.  Some men would have said it, even if they hadn’t believed it, just to stab their way out.  He was stunned.  He was dismayed.  Yes, at first he was.  But he believed me.  And accepted it.  I’ll always love him for that.

     And look at him now .... ah, his expression.  Who else can have seen that?  Such naked tenderness.  Not his mates.  Not his old girl friends.  Not me, till now.  I want to crush it to my breast, imprint it on my heart.  Yes, such power.  I’m his mother, father, lover, creator.

     I remember his power, and how it swept me away.  Is this how he felt, nine months ago, when he seduced me .... ?

     .... They’re telling me not to push, next time.  It’s close, it’s close.  The nurses are brisker, sharper tongued.  I’m a process, suddenly, not a person.  He’s sensed it, he’s standing up, peering across me.  I need his hand .... oh, Christ ....

     .... It didn’t come that time.  Let it be soon.  The violence of it.  I hate panting.  It’s like fighting myself.

     At the antenatal class I was the only one without a man.  Ask him, the teacher urged, you never know.  I will, I promised, but I lied. I couldn’t risk it.

     And he’s confused now.  His ignorance is frightening him.  He’s asking the midwife if something’s wrong.  He says I’m exhausted.  Am I exhausted?  I’ve never felt this way before, I don’t know.  It’s beyond exhaustion.  Beyond everything.  The midwife’s smiling.  Relax Dad, she says, she’s doing fine.  Dad.  He’s shocked.  Oh, his face.  It’s suddenly occurred to him that I am Mum, and he is Dad.  That this is how it is.  I want to laugh at him, at his astonishment.  He never realised ....

     .... Not that time, either.  Oh God.  Oh God.  I’m a drumtight fruit, about to split apart.  Something fleshy, juicy, exotic.  Mango, kumquat, pomegranate, pawpaw, passion fruit.  Will it hurt?  It must hurt.  Such soft flesh, such a merciless force.

     His face is tense and still.  So beautiful.  My beautiful, untamed, helpless man.  I feel spectacular.  Spectacularly ugly, spectacularly beautiful.  I am huge, all-encompassing, omnipotent.  I am the centre of the universe.

     Here it comes.  Oh God ....

     .... She is on my belly.  My child.  Our child.  Blood and mucus and warm stickiness.  My flesh is white, flaccid, spent.  Hers, mottled pink, plump and alive.  Where we touch the substance of me seems to enfold her.  I am adrift, way up here, but my body is earthbound, motherbound, and knows what to do.

     I am pure animal, and the world is singing.

     He is bending over us, recalling me.  His hand smooths damp strands of hair off my forehead.  His touch is dry and cool.  Now his lips brush my naked shoulder.

     The nurses have cut the cord;  our daughter is squirming across my breasts.  There, she has found a nipple;  such eager jaws, clamping and chewing.

     His fingertips circle, oh so reverently, the damp crown of her head.  His expression is soft and foolish.

     He lifts his gaze to me, and I see surrender.  I can walk inside now, claim what I like.