Poems and Poetry

Matris | A Poem by Claire Meadows

My triumph
in a swaddling sheet
But what is it,
If not a child?

I could never keep
A secret. My womb
Is new, and turning each hour
To make a fresh excuse.

What is it, this stranger
I hold? Bitter smile
Bitter eye, each signal
A cry,

For you could be
A father, but not to me.
No-one ever could;
Their lies, chambers flooded

With pity, not for me
But for the fragments
Of the mother
I will always be.

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