Charlotte Cosgrove

What Lack of Sleep Does to New Mothers

I’ve thrown my days old son under the bed
Where it’s cavernous and part of the structure is loose
Swinging like wooden knives.

I have splintered my son.
I have splintered my son.

Have I harmed that soft spot on the back of his head -
A squishy decaying strawberry stuck to the punnet.
Calamity is expected of you.

The handles of his moses basket rustle -
You’re there.
On your back, covers under arms
Exactly the way they tell you to do it,
Just in case.
Place fingers under tiny nostrils -
Cylindrical wonders producing air in and out
In and out, again, again, forever please.

Far, far away

I am sure there was a field full of four leaf clovers.

I can hear my father singing -
Luck be a lady tonight.

I am sure there were bluebells with dropped heads grieving in the sun.

I can hear my father singing -
He’s the bluebell man and he walks in dreams,

I am sure there were nests of birds with lazing wings as if it was Sunday morning.

I can hear my father singing -
Lost in the trees please don’t ever look me up.

I am sure someone told me to wipe the tears from my pretty face.

I can hear my father singing -
Johnny don’t cry no more.

I walk away
And I am sure I hear my father singing -
Hit the road Jack and don’t you come back.
No more, no more.
No more, no more.

You

I want to write words
To make you feel
Something,
To make you see
There is
Something else.
You are not just
A number
Or an adjective.
You are the thing we didn’t know we needed.
You are more than music
More than the clothes you wear,
The wallpaper you put up.
You are all of it.
Each of us are each of us
Waiting to happen.
Let us stand as a two,
A three, a four, a billion.
The same in our differences,
With skin, hearts, brains
To use.

Charlotte Cosgrove is a poet and lecturer from Liverpool, England. She is the author of Silent Violence with Petals and Neurotic Harmony. Charlotte is the Editor of Rough Diamond poetry journal. You can find her on Twitter @CharleyAustin89