On My Newborn Son’s Paralysis
When the time comes for playing in the snow
and crystal spears cling to the old fir tree,
see the sun’s rays reflected in their blades,
listen to the hawk’s chilling song of death –
and mute birth of a frozen Winter king,
stabbing dreams of my Madonna and child.
When ice defeats the radiance of fire
and water rages to be freed above,
smell the decay from the rabid wolf’s jowl
taste the poison of the mistletoe’s vine –
offering milky pearls of deception
as Lilith steals his infant voice and breath.
When holly leaves are frosted with sugar
and their berries pulsate with strong desire
to see my son’s mouth curve into a smile,
She whispers ‘do not be afraid to bleed’ –
as the spiky thorns pierce my empty womb
and my dry breasts shrivel with unspent tears.
When the hare’s paw prints lead me beyond fear
and the mirage of paralysis fades,
I will meet you there between the wintry veils
where I will see you smile and say my name –
for in this world of blooms trapped beneath ice
I will plant a garden for your soul’s life.
Annabel Du Boulay