hands at ears hair splayed screaming
the baby copying her tears snot streaming
is how I remember her always have always will
gripped with need for some small pill
or syringe or---

I'm holding her mother's hand, and -- lying --
Say that I loved her more as she was dying.
Ignoring the cause, ignoring my guilt
Boarding up the windows with the view I built.
We're crazy paving, joined together.
Hands all linked in forgetting whether
We were the cause of the start, the end,
Or the middle, where she showed that she would tend--
Maybe our actions sped her up, catalysed?
We do not ask.
                Our mouths all lie that we are surprised.

---she is pregnant hands encircling
rich and fertile with a hidden promise
boy or girl?
We know now so
we celebrate
even though we had made a promise not to
was that the start?

The hardest question comes last,
At last,
"Will the baby remember her past?
Yes, I say, from far away,
We'll say a prayer on Mother's day.
There will be a picture (blown-up huge), I'll ask who's that?
She'll look up brightly from her activity mat--

I float away, mouth using persuasive platitudes,
Telling them she will know her mother's multitudes,
Wondering whether my memories can be falsified.
Wondering whether I will remember that I lied.

--I'm holding her mother's hand, and - lying -
Say that I love her most now she is dead.
I have fooled her, she looks down, sighing,
But her father's red-rimmed eyes hold steady on my head.