Filling the Space
Obsession, like death, fills the little space with meaning.
A serious game is in progress, played out with many
They bluff, I offer memories; I remember, they forget.
They practise the art of subject-change with care while I,
frantic for an antidote to silence, drag in Pip, leaving no
except from the grave. Only I want facts about stillbirth.
My newspaper hides a wall of deaf-dumb blindness built
Intimacy is created with pictures. I deep-breathe resistance
into the efforts of all who won’t permit my son his name or let
his frail doll-body live – just for now – through fading
Reality, like the butterfly in a glass case, is best pinned
I want them to know Pip – his life, long bones, dark beauty,
His broken frame and the quiet withdrawal of his dying.
If I could only lean kindly from my longing I’d make more
in which to cradle my certainty of him, the truth of his being
when sympathy wilts; images weaken; witnesses forget.
June can be heard and seen
reading another poem about