Sheepskin rug

This was intended to be a joke poem, until it mostly wasn’t. I hate it when that happens.


Sat over the spot where I

so inconveniently childbirthed,

it keeps my feet.


In sore and sorry two o’ clocks

and breathless midnights

I soak in baby warmth,


dandle fingers, push my toes in

and wriggle. And there, first sentences

triumphantly aloft and there,


first smiles like sunbursts;

the angry tears I tried to muffle

and those I didn’t.


Footnote: unbaptised, yet,

by pee. Which is

miraculous, frankly.



2 thoughts on “Sheepskin rug

  1. Ah now this feels like a proper poem – I found myself looking at your toes pointing out the rug’s recent history. I like it đŸ™‚

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