Post-natally wounded

I walked home through rain so heavy
that it didn’t matter anymore. My toes are soft
with the wet of it. More than a spit.
Babies so small their eyes only half full,
fist wrapped round half my finger,
they clutch at a voice that shapes words
little identified as pronouns or verbs
just safety.

The pitch of that scream,
perfectly designed to cut at the seams
of me, I want to run away from the very idea
of something else needing me.
I’ve nothing left to give.
So i open myself to strange hands and cold metal,
ripping open the fuzzy green of the poppy
to unfurl the petals.
Hide me from it all, please,
put on the kettle.

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