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Ruth Pink

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Learning to breathe in the air

(OR 3 babies talk to their Mothers)


I.

Surfacing after drowning
the sunlight is blinding
lungs once full of broken
water are wet and new as
new
born wings of moths
and I tremble
before the flutters
of oxygen's first draught
then inhale it
gasping
and sink like treasure
down to sleep.


II.

I am a sea creature
heaved out,
turn land loving
breathe now
without the snorkel
webbed feet became
fingers
amphibious scales
on my skin
dissolve
to a satin
that royalty would long
to be wrapped in.


III.

you, with
the blond face
of Frida Kahlo
and me, smooth as
a well-oiled eel - did it!
came out wriggling,
landed, crimson splat
picked up the beat
of Africa
on Active FM
and began to stomp
and sing.



The Mothers reply...


I.

four hours before
your first breath
(the coffin is a
display case)
your Dad is
variegated
brown
arms tucked in
at his sides and he's
pinned to
the board
at the
back of the box
by the
absence of
life in his body

II.

your decompression
made me dizzy
the clench unclench
and perforation of
base of my body
the shimmers of pain
there you were:
succulent fingers
stretching like stars for
peaches so full
they can not bear
the sweetness
of their own fruit,
needing to taste
the kiss of your
first tooth


III.

the womb is a back pack:
carried you
here to there
while you
kicked and sang
and banged about
heard you singin
heard you
asked you not to
wanted quiet
what you doin in there
I'd say
you never talk back only
muck around with that
rap band rhythm for
gawd's sake

 

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