Jenny Cox
Flow
I am carried through this house on waves of sadness.
Picking up, putting down,
straightening cushions
to realign what has been tilted off its axis.
Or perhaps I am building a dam
of soft pillows and blankets
to absorb this rising tide of tears.
A fabricated womb,
a material wailing wall to muffle this grief
that has bitten like sharp teeth
into marshmallow hearts,
leaving the softest parts exposed.
This grief is not mine,
but the salt of our tears must taste the same.
And I cannot stem the flow
knowing you will never smell your child again.
For you, I inhale all the deeper.
Green
Before the house wakes,
I step out into a hushed garden,
let my feet unfold into soft green,
breathe the cool, clean air.
The heat of yesterday has left
beads of moisture across the grass,
perfect orbs clinging to each blade
like snowless globes of summer light
reflecting an inverted world.
My daughter talks about climate change,
asks how many degrees it is today,
her eyes orbing wide at the number,
this heat so foreign to her.
For now, I can shelter her in our little garden,
let her enjoy fishing bugs out of the inflatable pool
with our kitchen sieve before diving in,
a sweet-chilled release from the sun’s hot grip.
For now, she can enjoy licking drippy ice pops,
her tongue running to catch the sweet juice before it stains her swimsuit.
She doesn’t need to know it will only get hotter.
For now.
Solstice
On this,
the longest day,
I think of you,
and for a moment,
this Summer solstice
holds the darkest hour.
I see you,
twirling through blades of grass,
yellow dress ballooning out
from your slender body
like sweet candyfloss
on a wooden stick.
How you loved that dress,
your favourite colour,
and set out to wear it
even as the Summer days,
and our mother’s patience,
grew shorter.
You were buried in it, I think.
How terrible of me that I do not remember.
But I turned away, you see,
to keep the golden memory of you safe.