Looking back
it seemed
the child
was not to be
always there,
not through lack
of love or care,
but something
that came to her
in dreams of dread
at night asleep in bed.
She tries to retake
in dreams
the child back,
to pretend
that through
wishful thinking
she can make up
the lack.
Arms fold
into cradle
as once they had
when child lay
in arm's hold,
snuggled
and warm,
alive and moving,
seeking out with
eyes and fingers
her mother's dug.
Rock-abye-baby
no more,
the arms
and hands
redundant,
the last time
she recalls
the dead child
in arms,
rocking
back and forth,
as if this might cure
and bring back
to life,
might stir open
eyes, jog open
lips and mouth
to suck.
Not to be
just the memory,
ill luck.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem