Kathryn Reese
When you were born, I was sent away to the witchdoctor/my grandma’s house/the place where they teach babies to sleep. You, a bundle in my arms/a portacot/still in my belly. Me, a problem child.
When you were born I became tears/blood/breastmilk, the mattress soaked through and my midwife/husband/prayers could not staunch the flow. I knew you as cabbage leaf/cabbage moth/mouth and they said, if I poured enough of myself into you, you would grow good bones.
What would I know of bones? Mine exchanged every night for incense/gold leaf/fur. They would tether me to a tree/one dream/my bed, they would bring me soup/my clothes/my pills and place you on my chest as if you weighed anything at all—
I tell you these things now you are gone/grown/have one of your own. I expect you might not care/understand/have it the same. But I have seen the way you dance/kiss that boy/become thistle seed and I have so much I want to/still can’t say
#
Kathryn Reese writes poetry & flash. She lives on Peramangk land in Adelaide, South Australia. She works in medical microbiology and enjoys solo road trips, hiking and chasing frogs to record their calls for science. Her poems can be found in The Engine Idling, Epistemic Literary, Crowstep, and Red Room Poetry. Her flash are in Glassworks and 2025 Flash Flood.