E.V. McLoughlin Poetry

On the ward

this is about a pad.
a thick one, hospital-walls green.

I’ve run out.
a one-day mother
in pink pajamas
with out-of-season snowmen.

Don’t you have your own?

a piece-of-liver blood clot,
a memory the size of
my baby’s head,
the bins’ clatter,
the sticky sheets

Don’t you have your own?

maybe I’ll open a bloody pad factory
under my hospital bed
sell them to my inmates
from behind the blue curtain.

you gave me a lingering
soulful, accusing look
like starving children
in Concern ads...


To read the rest of this article Login

or purchase a Digital Subscription