Cot

I remember times when you would cough,

splutter back cups of milky cream.

 

The curdled cries after your fall

and cleaning rivulets from a cut

 

that gushed with pain. Red and slick

I could stomach, but it was the tired look

 

in your eyes, the mum we need to talk,

that made me stop and notice the lost tick

 

of the clock. Against your age I fought

to keep my baby in her cot.

 

Published by Pastiche Magazine

Highly commended in the York Writers Poetry Competition

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About Vicki

Wife, mother, student, writer. View all posts by Vicki

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