At Twenty-eight by Bron Bateman
Updated: Jan 3
I was pregnant for the seventh time,
fat as a seal, listing south,
anaemic, with a pale, dry mouth
and an endless thirst for ice blocks.
I remember standing in the shower, legs outspread,
so tired sometimes that I would slide
carefully, pendulously, down the wet, tiled wall
and let the water beat on my head like a drum.
Social Services allocated me a cleaner,
and I would get up early before she came, and make the beds,
feed breakfast to the younger children, settle the kitchen to rights,
and send the older ones to school. My belly,
the veins in my legs and vulva, hung
like ripe bunches of grapes,
pounding with all that extra blood, as I smoothed
the sleek brown head of that child, or this,
gathering them to myself;
Bron Bateman is a poet and academic. She has had her work published in anthologies, journals and online in Australia, the UK and the US. Her first collection, 'people from bones', was published in 2002 and her second collection, 'Of Memory and Furniture', is forthcoming in 2020 with Fremantle Press. She has won both the Bobbie Cullen Memorial Prize for Creative Writing, in 2004 and Columbia University's Winter Prize for Poetry in 2017. She lives with her wife and two youngest daughters in Western Australia.