Pam Thompson
Newborn
Funny how you forget how small
they are, how they curl like seahorses
across your chest, pinning you down
with the weight of love, how your blue shirt
was made for his heart beating against
its buttons, his fontanelle to cradle
your end of the working day stubble.
Funny how you forget how they grow,
that years pound on floorboards of houses,
nursery, primary, secondary. Still here.
Head sunk into a blue shirt, unshaved,
done in. Sleeping like a baby.
Page(s) 19
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