Anne McDonald, 4 poems

Still birth.
Steps of stairs from seven to five
we stood in line on the garden wall,
dressed in gingham, hand made,
handed down, waiting now for hours,
dark hair burnished in the winter sun.
It seemed like years since she had gone
we almost thought we’d never get her back,
but here she was, home.

‘Howya Mam,
Where have you been?
What did you get us?’
Our questions clamored.
‘In the hospital’ she replied,
her face turned towards the harsh lit kitchen window,
as we all chorused ‘why?’

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