The Cord
No one tells you
when they cut the cord
and place
her newborn head
against your breast.
In that first latch
with every gulp
you’ll feel
your womb contract.
With every book
you read to her
you’ll educate
her choice
to choose new titles
of her own.
And every time
you bring her
to the track
you’re teaching her
to trust her pace,
to run from home
without the need
for looking
back.
You’ll pack the car
with every thing
you think she needs.
Warm socks, a coat,
her every single dress
all squashed.
Adjust
her favourite bear
to let her breathe.
You’ll travel back
those miles in fog
without a single breath
that doesn’t hurt.
You’ll pull into your drive.
It’s then you’ll see
from all the years
of scolding
she’s pulled her curtains
back.
The empty room
you helped her pack
will stop you
in your tracks.
With every gulp
feel
your womb contract.
Leaving White Bridge
I hoped you hadn’t noticed
An honour guard was forming
From under fly sheets all along the river.
Old men being dragged
By invisible hooks
From lopsided mouths
Struggling not to show themselves up.
Caught short in summer shirts
Left to do the shouldering.
The mopping up.
Unread newspapers folded neatly
Under arms
Like precious Tricolours.
For the first time in my life
I took your driver’s seat
And placed my hand on yours
As you tried to grip the brake.
Weak, from months of empty retching.
I halted at the last post.
Buckled, underneath the roar
Of the Mallow train
And the drumroll of the cattle grid.
Turned the clock back to zero.
Set the rearview mirror.
And watched your life grow smaller.
Martina Dalton studied fine art at Waterford Institute of Technology. Her poems have been published in Poetry Ireland Review, the Stony Thursday Book, Crannóg, Skylight 47, and Channel. She has been chosen as a mentee for the Words Ireland National Mentoring Programme 2019/2020.
