Had it only been my feet
splayed across the grass,
toes gnarled and calloused
between soil and stone

before the clamping of my legs,
the fusing of my thighs,
the sealing of my buttocks
and tender-lipped ***

I could have held my baby son,
suckled him until he slept.

But black-growth swarmed my arms,
prickled on my hands.
My ******* crusted,
my milky ******* were taped,
tubed round and round
with strips of scaly bark.

Had they spared my face
the slap of leaves that clung,
whorled into my ears,
gagged my mouth
and lidded my eyes

he would have known my voice,
dreamt it rising from the glade.

But I flower with grief,
my blood-warm motherhood
sealed in a wooden tomb.