25th August 2016

The baby is turning into a cat or a pig
or a lamb and I am turning into a baby,
lying where the infant was placed an hour
ago while the swaddle was arranged.
I wake from naps unsure of where I am,
who I am, only certain of the creature
in the bassinet growling or mewling or
bleating. I am secreting almost as much
as the baby. As I feed him, I drink litres
of milk. People provide me with meals and
my job is to sleep when he sleeps. Eat
before he drinks. Keep ourselves clean and
dry. He grimaces and goes puce while
I hold sutures and lean forward, stomach
over thighs, tip-toeing in lieu of using
the foot-stool prescribed by the physio.