Heidi North: The Child I Am Losing
Little Bud
Cornflakes
The morning nurse adjusts my bed
smoothing and smothering as if I’m a child
bursts the metal skin sealing the milk carton
slides her finger along the sharp edge
folds the danger under with a practiced hand
pours milk lavish on the cornflakes
spoons in the soft plop of peaches
places beside me strong tea with too much sugar
and waits for me to eat as if I am the child here
and it’s not about the child I am losing
In this ward
The nurses touch
more than usual pat pat
their sanitised finger bones
reach into the dark corridor
grip my elbow against the assault
of carpet and light
hover behind the unlocked bathroom door
lunge into my disposable underwear
and check the pad. In the bruised morning
they keep the cheap red curtains drawn
It’s been a week
When the nurse calls to confirm
it was pregnancy tissue they extracted and secreted
folding the sheet over discrete
I’m buckled over in the car again
with the windscreen wipers swiping
tears because I signed you away to the fire –
I just didn’t know how to bring you home –
When she says, We sighted the pregnancy sac
regret sucks the last of my strength,
Your tiny budded body curled and lost and gone
This insanity never ends
beside the grave
of cigarette butts
and discarded coffee grinds
I hold you
bone to bone
the emptiness transforms
passion blurs our edges
and then
we are here again
in this violet twilight world
you open the frozen window
invite the sharp night in
Devon St Songs
1 Late summer
We ignored all the signs,
the crumpled house captured us
despite the 87-year-old carpet layer
wheezing down the crocked steps
the landlord in purple velvet after him, studded stilettos
stage-whispering, I worry he might have a heart attack
The tangle of dead trees sprawled
over the place a lawn could be
not neglectful, but endearing
a wildness in the city
the fig tree balding in late summer –
bottom layer green and holding on tight.
2 Autumn
There were three red apples
on the tree for weeks
and only today did he brave
the undercurrent of weeds
to find steady ground
to stand on to pick them.
They’re soft, puckered
as an old woman’s mouth
but we still love each other,
we cradle them – soft
unexpected treasures –
bring them inside to stew.
2 Winter
The plum tree spikes
naked against the brilliant blue
some kind of wide-leaved
hacked up tree trunk sends one
brave narrow shoot up
towards the sun
3 Spring
We promised each other we’d last till Spring
we’d survive the rain-soft
stairs, avoid the neighbours fighting above
clung tight in the dark chill nights
but mid-winter you put your fist
through the bedroom wall
and found nothing there
except weeds and air,
all this time nothing between
us and the outside world.
We never stood a chance.
Heidi North is a writer from Auckland, New Zealand. Her poetry and short stories have been published in New Zealand, Australia and the UK. She won an international Irish award for her poetry in 2007, and has won New Zealand awards for her short fiction. Heidi’s first poetry book Possibility of Flight was published by Makaro Press in 2015. She joined the Shanghai International Writers Programme along with ten other writers worldwide as the NZ fellow in September-October in 2016. She was award the Hachette/NZSA mentorship for 2017 to work on her first novel. She has a Masters in Creative Writing from the University of Auckland.
