The Stopping Thing
after Wanda Coleman
You wrestle the car seat’s five-point harness,
scrabble for a foothold in the new life.
The baby has thin hair and flaky skin
like age — this daughter dished up fresh
out of my body to gaze clear-eyed at air.
We three begin again.
People come round, space shrinks,
we stay afloat, bob up and down, grief
drops by. Boredom, joy. We learn
to walk, to read bright books.
In that fantasy I overcome the stopping thing,
deal with blood, the smell of sick, money.
Your other kids are fine with it,
love us, drive noisy cars, grow parsley
in a greenhouse made of other people’s windows.
Ruth Higgins lives near Tring in Hertfordshire. Over the last couple of years she has had poems published by Arachne Press, Ink Sweat & Tears, Southwark Libraries and Strix magazine.