A midnight poem

Tonight, as I lay in bed reading my crappy book, Sam brought up our incredibly stressful lawyer/lawsuit, which I cannot discuss openly on this blog. Let's just say, I was in a car accident at 29 weeks pregnant. Lucy died at 38 weeks pregnant. I hired a lawyer at the time to protect me in case Lucy died. He hasn't returned our call in over a month. I haven't the energy to deal with this shit. Last time I talked to him directly on the phone he gave me excuse number 248, and verbally berated me. He gives lawyers a bad name, and yet, somehow I haven't the energy even to fire him. I want this over. I am not strong, despite what my last post might have suggested. I wanted to give love to someone I care about, but I haven't always got a backbone, or an ounce of strength left.

Today, Sam and I took Beatrice and Jack to a little park we found once riding our bike. It was beautiful, and for those moments hiking, I found myself wholly present. I was sort of happy, and I let Sam take my picture with Bea. And it is the first picture I have seen of myself since Lucy died that doesn't physically make me cringe, even without makeup. Maybe it is because I don't look horribly sad. I just look old and tired, but not exactly broken. I am all about not being broken.

We came home and took a family nap and then went for a family run. In all, it worked out to be a beautiful day, and then, there I was, sitting in bed thinking I'm not sure I will ever sleep thinking about Lucy's death and lawyers.

And so, at almost midnight, I am sitting up watching crappy television trying to forget all that is lurking in my life that I wish would end. Colleen, my high school friend and the woman currently editing my poetry, sent me this poem tonight. It is beautiful and sad, and somehow a perfect ending to this beautiful day. And so, I share it with you.

Child Burial
by Paula Meehan

(I hope I am attributing this correctly.)

Your coffin looked unreal,
fancy as a wedding cake.

I chose your grave clothes with care,
your favourite stripey shirt,

your blue cotton trousers.
They smelt of woodsmoke, of October,

your own smell was there too.
I chose a gansy of handspun wool,

warm and fleecy for you. It is
so cold down in the dark.

No light can reach you and teach you
the paths of the wild birds,

the names of the flowers,
the fishes, the creatures.

Ignorant you must remain
of the sun and its work,

my lamb, my calf, my eaglet,
my cub, my kid, my nestling,

my suckling, my colt. I would spin
time back, take you again

within my womb, your amniotic lair,
and further spin you back

through nine waxing months
to the split seeding moment

you chose to be made flesh
word within me.

I'd cancel the love feast
the hot night of your making.

I would travel alone
to a quiet mossy place,

you would spill from me into the earth
drop by bright red drop.


from the above website with permissions from The Gallery Press, Loughcrew, Oldcastle, County Meath, Ireland from The Man Who Was Marked By Winter, 1991

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