Vicarious

Half my life ago,
I lay with another black
cat with swelling sides,
waiting for her babies. Now,
my womb howls for each child who
drowned in its warm, red darkness.


10 January 2009



I wrote the poem below, about my pregnant, black cat Grizzabella, on 14 August 1983, which is actually pretty close to 25 years ago, though I didn't know that, until I checked the old poem...

Mother-to-Be

She is unsure of her ballooning body…
Sometimes, she mistimes her jumps,
And has to claw her way to safety.
Sometimes, she lies in the garden,
Smugly spreading her stomach to the sun,
Her swollen teats, two rows of white-iced cupcakes,
Topped with sugary-pink jelly tots.

Tonight, she sleeps on my stomach,
And I stroke the dark and velvet fur,
Feeling the tiny lumps
Writhe under my fingertips.

I wrap her whole body
In my flesh, and whisper –
My babies,
My babies.


Since then, I have had William, Alice's still birth, and all the miscarriages, plus I am too old for children now, so the contrast seems particularly painful. I fiddled with it for ages, and am still not sure I have the best version. Not at all sure about the title either: oh, well...