by Alexis Wolfe

We’d met at antenatal class
I spy you through the glass wall
your baby incubated in HDU
mine in SCBU
autumn born babies,
subsumed by acronyms

Deflated bumps and baby-less,
we traipse hospital corridors.
Once, accompanied by nurses,
we pass in opposite directions
wordlessly you raise gun fingers,
deliver a temple headshot.

Yet days later
your baby’s homebound,
blue balloons and a car seat.
My baby’s left behind
a resident fixture
until winter.

We write each birthday
with news of our boys’
divergent paths.
Each year it gets easier
and harder
to tell you the truth.