Broderie Anglais

In the middle of Mothercare,

amongst the bright-coloured toys

made to beep and squeak by small sticky fingers,

amongst the moans of ‘stop that’ and ‘come here now’

she peers into the navy blue pram

to see nestled in puffs of Broderie Anglais 

the soft translucent skin over eyes shut tight,

mittened hands flapping, lower lip trembling.

She stares as the mouth opens wide,

showing gums and tongue,

emitting a noise that cuts to her core

like a hot brand through soft flesh.

Her finger strokes the reddening cheek,

it catches its breath to turn its head,

the white cotton cap slips off

revealing a pulsating fontanelle.

She slips one hand under its head,

the other under the back,

and lifts the child onto her shoulder.

The cries subside as she strokes its back,

jigs its solid weight up and down, up and down,

mutters ‘there there, Mummy’s here’ 

into the tiny ear like a curl of butter,

kisses the soft scalp and smells

milk and talc and sickly- sweet shit.

Gently she lays the sleeping form

back into the virgin white,

rocks the pram a little

puts one hand on her heart,

the other to her mouth,

turns and leaves.