For My First-Born, Dead

390,000 babies were born Along with you on that Saturday I floated above the birthing bed On pethidine wings The scalpel opened my crack Like a wizard's sleeve The iron jaws of the forceps Prized you out After, I slept A snapped guitar string Bankrupt of energy, a stalled car Oh, we were a pair! Novice mother with novice son All fingers and thumbs You were perfect, bewildered, lovely An unmarked page Circumstances change. I signed you into care Made you a desert of storms A pyre of possibilities Trashed your trust It was a give-a-way Care-less…butterfingers An heirloom dropped and smashed Beyond care and repair We were finding our way Back to the loving times When I opened that door You were beached on the couch, alone Curled like a dark prawn Your skin like a swelling drum As if your soul had been desperate to escape That you had come to this! 40 summers old and not one taste of bliss From a nearby syringe I heard the dragon hiss Ochone mo chridhe, No hug, no parting kiss Flies buzzing on the edge of the abyss Where is the hair shirt The lash for self mortification? The heavy portcullis of time Dropped before I could atone On your death-day the radio played ‘My Final Song' ‘Please won't you wait? Won't you stay? At least until the sun goes down.' The clouds ask, ‘Why are you still alive? When your child has gone? Your moon, your stars, your son Your abandoned one? I dream of a midnight pool A drowning swan