Off the Coast

The infertility poem or the sad woman in the photograph 

My cousin has two
small children (brilliant, 
bold, brave daughters). While I have none. Only the
distillate of winter’s
unquiet. Winter’s branches
of reckoning. Winter’s
storms. Like new bees
in the universe. The
arrival of the half-sea
half-river. I am lovesick. 
Lovesick for a child. 
For children of my own. 
Tangled in the story
and art of it. Of life. 
Dancing away and into
the arms, the passage
and the mother tongue
of infertility’s ghost. 
My poems are tough. 
Especially the poems from my childhood. 
Gone but not forgotten. 
It is the sunshine in your
voice that I wish to

forget as I travel towards
an unknown future. As I
wash my hands in a basin, 
wash the dishes in the
sink or my hair, run a
bath, water running out
of the faucet. As I prepare
a meal flying solo. As I
cook food in steaming pots
on the stove I realise this. 
That I can’t count on you
anymore. You’re dead to me and I am
dead to you. You’re this poem. 
The seduction goes
something like this. 
I climb into myself and then
there is a disturbance. 
My hands go haywire
and grasp at everything. 
I go inside my head. 
I’m waiting for you to show up. My knight in shining armour. Sitting
in a restaurant. You
show up. Hungry. Can’t wait to order. Is this a test? 
The windows are dirty.