Photo by Gwenole Camus

Her fingers glide
over the swell of belly
once there

She remembers

A morning long ago
when he first cried,
ejected from her womb

The weight of him
in the crook of her arm
Cocooning, disquieting love

She remembers

Soft fingers at her waist
The imprint of teeth
on tender flesh

The future bloomed
through nights
with her tireless child

Then it came.

The diagnosis
A weight in her chest
that never left

Where it hurts

Limp hair, glassy eyes,
things that once mattered
stricken by amnesia

Leaving just him, and her –

spiralling
into the darkness
where melancholy waited

The fall,
a draped casket,
a void of solace

Now only ghosts
accompany
her path

Her body betrays her
Breasts ache
with spent milk

Fingers reach
for the boy who is gone

She is an empty husk,
a vessel of love
wasted on loss

Grateful for the space
in her soul that
will always be his