Wardrobes

My father’s womb,
raw wood inside, rough to the touch,
where I crawled to see the album,
khaki squares of men in Singapore
eagled at each corner, hushed in tissue.
Trouser bottoms flapped around my head,
fat envelope of love letters, rent books.
Sex, Love and Eugenics curtained by ties.
Mothballs fell like fruit into my lap.

My mother’s larger, bosomy,
polished dark wood door
inhabited by a bulk of sulking fur,
dovetailed pleated skirts, handbags roosting.
Troops of shoes allowed no chance of wriggling in.
The day she left
I wandered, a bear,
huge cuffs my foraging paws, rattling hangers,
miles, in the echoing, empty bellied wood.

Published in Enitharmon/Second Light Anthology Parents  Ed. M. Schneider & D. Wood, 2000

Motherhawk

I am twenty furious reds
dragon-winged, ripper-beaked
alas, invisible to your kind.
We lurk in dawn’s cool hours
networking by vibration. My elongated yellow eye
misses nothing. I hovered above the labour ward
when you couldn’t push any harder
and they woke a junior doctor
to bully you, wielding his ventouse, his forceps
as blood vessels blazed in the whites of your eyes.

I am with you, beloved, every lonely night
while your scarlet newborn screams
and your man lies snoring. My talons
gouge his window, my incantations
melt hallucinated vipers, quieten colic.
How? You can never know.
We are multitudinous: night shift
day-shift, flame-feathered doulas
transversing your realm, reassuring
new mothers everywhere, unheard
unseen. Just doing our job.

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Nicolette Golding (Nic) has written poetry since childhood. She is always delighted when published or winning an occasional prize but maintains a low profile as she is far too hermit-y to enjoy social media. She was thankful to leave London 20 years ago, and now lives and writes in a Norfolk village.