You are trying to be a father,
rubbing my breast’s beauty spot,
I arch my back for a girl,
baby-cries escape my mouth.
We are months, maybe years
ahead of the midwife
who will pull the child out
her sack like a rabbit.
All night you sleep foetal in my arms,
your body just within reach, just
out of reach.
I am beginning to dream
daily now, of a room full of globes
lit up and spinning
and a cot that can hardly contain
its enormity. One morning
I will slip out of bed, into that room,
everything in the old world
will have inched over slightly,
our child will be breathing.