my mother in her bedroom
slipping on a nightdress
her voice as thick as cream
the muffled drum of her heart
and the streaming of bubbles through long narrow spaces

lying on her back
head raised on pillows as if she is looking down on me
despite the blankets
despite the dark
despite her closed eyes

a story is already unfolding
me face to face with the moon
remembering its cool tug
my mother standing beside me
staring out at the stars

she is dreaming a car trip
my father at the wheel
her hand on his left leg
her thoughts threading him
and the road’s slow glow

her thoughts weave me too
these delicate raw parts
binding me in her silences
looping her dreams into knots
and tying them round me in beautiful chains

(from my collection 'To Know Bedrock', published by Pindrop Press)

First Trimester