by Alexis Wolfe

We’d met at antenatal class
I spy you through the glass wall
our 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.


Photo by Kevin Hackert via Unsplash