Helen (Mother)
My mother was alone when she gave birth,
save for the flocks of anonymous doctors
who removed me from her bloodied womb
with spears and forceps,
whilst my father marked her agony
with stains on the bar. When I arrived
late, pink, and screaming,
my father accepted the hearty congratulations
of beetroot faced drunks and ordered another round.
Whilst my mother held me to her
breast and, like Persephone blessing the
world with spring, breathed life into my
small clay body.
And as the men sank their bitters
and scratchings, she whispered
it’s just you and me.
Alice Neal is a working-class writer from rural Devon. She uses imagery from her agricultural upbringing to examine her life and mental health struggles through poetry. She also has an interest in unravelling the effects of her family’s generational trauma. You can find her on Instagram @aliceneal.98 and @aliceneail_98 on Twitter.