Alyson Dayus

A product of scar-tissue, I am; I
looked at my wounds, and didn’t see
when you slipped away. No more
than a passing thought, your unfulfilled conception;
does she still cry for you, I wonder, when all
the doors are closed? The babies
she still carries, would you rest
in my womb for a while? Remind
me of what could have been, comfort
me as I sit like the Late-night Knitter,
thinking of being alone. We could
imagine that Dad was a revolutionary, that Mum
could get out of bed.

Lost but hardly forgotten, like
dropping a stitch; the disaster soon passes, but
the hole remains. Grief at her failed fecundity,
imagined years birth
saccharine inventions that stem loneliness and
give meaning to an almost-loss. Was it
in your genes, I wonder? A
sacrifice to Darwinian cruelty, or
just an unhappy accident that I
somehow survived? When they
cut her flesh to pull me out, I didn’t
know you; you helpless blood-filled jellyfish, a scarlet
promise of humanity, appearing later
like promiscuous ghosts in my almost-memories. In me,
I carry the babies she lost to fate. My arms ache for them.

**Note: the line ‘as I sit like the Late-night Knitter’ is a reference to Pam Ayres’ poem ‘Thoughts of a Late-night Knitter,’ which can be found in the 1978 book of the same name, published by Arrow Books.

Alyson Dayus is a new British writer - The above piece is the first poem she's ever had published. She's very proud to be included in the April issue of Wicked Alice. She lives in England with her partner, and is currently completing her PhD in sociology.