IV (From Fox-Boy)
The hospital lights are rushing
bright; smile cannot be unpicked from
her lips, the nurses coo to each other
and peep around the door,
Come and look
Is this the baby with all the hair?
Oh, isn’t he beautiful, look
Look, at all his hair –
Where is he from?
Here, he’s from here.
In the street she carries him in
a striped sling, close to her heart–
she cannot be apart from his wily
beats: people
jostle to look at his face
invade the space between mother
and child, she is kind though
and she doesn’t mind them stroking
him, except when they say:
What is he?
Ruth Stacey writes poems in the fleeting spaces between motherhood and studying Native American Literature. It is not the easiest way to be a writer, but it is her way. This is her website.