bethany

bethany

 

last night,

i dreamt that the ex

before the last ex

had left a large box

on my doorstep

 

true to her callous form

there were no words of explanation

the box containing glass bottles

of tiny wet food

a car-seat

no nappies

a recycled envelope containing an original birth certificate

and,

a baby daughter,

bethany

 

suddenly,

under the ebb and flow

of eyelids aslumber

it was all going on:

 

an ankle-deep torrent

of parental responsibility

and baby swill, leaked

and splashed from

hellish colours formerly unseen

 

a fierce skirmish

with the bureaucratic bite

of a whiskered and wheezing social worker

keener on kidnap

than support

 

then,

shell-shocked in a supermarket

stopping women

who looked like they might be mothers

begging them to reveal

what an unexpected father will need

for a doorstep daughter

 

later,

some hour before dawn

humbled calm 

when i slowed down enough

to meet her cornflower stare

 

acceptance shared

in an ocean of trust,

as tiny fingers clutched my giant

grown-up thumb

 

~

 

i woke some hours later,

with the instant panic

of not hearing her breathing

 

then, 

a deeper, more determined panic

in the face of an empty house

 

sadness taking the form

of that numb blinking 

that comes after

looking deep

into a glorious,

brilliant light