by Annie Freud
There was something gallant in the way you held your new born
while chopping an onion with your free hand,
the phone clapped between shoulder and ear.
People kept telling you: what you want to do is . . .
and although you knew it was kindly meant,
and some of it even made sense,
you fitted the arms and legs into the new clothes you bought,
fastened the tiny buttons, and brushed the extraordinary hair,
the colour of which no word has yet been found,
into its first quiff – This is my baby, you said aloud,
I’m doing this my way.
From Annie Freud’s latest collection The Remains. Read another poem from the collection here.
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