I can feel them
your soft chubby hands
drifting across my face
always searching
your squeal of glee
when I turn my head to nibble
on your delicious digits
That belly
round and tight as a drum
with a thin coating of fat
to reassure me
of how far you've come
from the gaunt infant
whose every breath made me tremble
You concentrate -
no time for games, this,
and bowed but never broken
you walk.
And is there any greater miracle?
The blessing of seeing you walk?
Your lips purse -
obstinate – you hoard
your giggles and smiles
for those who have braved the prickles.
And when they flash
those eyes, those teeth
joy radiating from my serious girl
my breath catches in my chest
as yours once did.
You've caught me.
Your soft, sticky, warm, chubby fingers
tangled my heartstrings
so that here, so far away
they pulse only for you.
Zawadi.
Showing posts with label Zawadi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Zawadi. Show all posts
Monday, July 25, 2011
Poems for Z
I arrive
pregnant with expectation
thrilled to start a new day
up the winding cliff face.
She lies still
on her cot, tiny chest
shuddering with the effort of each breath.
I lay
hand after hand
on her shrunken back
waiting for reassurance
as they feel the juddering
shaking
catching as she breathes.
They send us
as we are never sent
clutching red file under one arm
listless child in the other
dressed in her best
as if to show
our weakest at their greatest strength.
The doctor reads off her history
no birth date
and that hits me hard in the chest
zero October two thousand and nine
our tiny soul
pneumonia, malaria, suspected meningitis
and if they had been right!
no sweet babe in my arms.
Hold for observation.
She tests negative for malaria, no fever
and not a cringe when the needle
plunges through her paper thin
first percentile skin.
Blood filled with questions
painful suspicions squeezed ruthlessly
and without dissent
from her tiny fingertip
She is too small for chest scans
too young for an HIV test
so she is offhandedly handed
a prescription for antibiotics
Treat for pneumonia
Nothing else we can do.
For once first and third world agree
today we helped
but her prospects are not good.
Nothing else I can do.
Once a mother
in who knows what state
of agony or ecstasy
looked down and named her Zawadi. Gift.
pregnant with expectation
thrilled to start a new day
up the winding cliff face.
She lies still
on her cot, tiny chest
shuddering with the effort of each breath.
I lay
hand after hand
on her shrunken back
waiting for reassurance
as they feel the juddering
shaking
catching as she breathes.
They send us
as we are never sent
clutching red file under one arm
listless child in the other
dressed in her best
as if to show
our weakest at their greatest strength.
The doctor reads off her history
no birth date
and that hits me hard in the chest
zero October two thousand and nine
our tiny soul
pneumonia, malaria, suspected meningitis
and if they had been right!
no sweet babe in my arms.
Hold for observation.
She tests negative for malaria, no fever
and not a cringe when the needle
plunges through her paper thin
first percentile skin.
Blood filled with questions
painful suspicions squeezed ruthlessly
and without dissent
from her tiny fingertip
She is too small for chest scans
too young for an HIV test
so she is offhandedly handed
a prescription for antibiotics
Treat for pneumonia
Nothing else we can do.
For once first and third world agree
today we helped
but her prospects are not good.
Nothing else I can do.
Once a mother
in who knows what state
of agony or ecstasy
looked down and named her Zawadi. Gift.
