We planted your naval string in a pit that your father dug,

so that every Autumn we could eat sweet figs.

We broke ground with white rum

and buried your placenta with:

the clumps of hair that fell to my feet in the shower;

psalms torn from the Bible;

bissy nuts – that would mark the small of your back;

red cloth and myrrh – to run duppies;

the curl that I cut – to hold your tongue (dumb).
The doctor prescribed Escitalopram to stop me scratching holes

in all the thoughts I had (about the things we did before),

like swimming in rainy season storms,

when the grey sea swelled into a grey sky,

and sent crocodiles down Black River. Gasping saltwater –

every breath was a prayer.

Bubble wrap lungs

burst alveoli. The sea spat back:

brackish water

black spores

horsehair

black skin swollen into a bruise.

The sea stole two boys that week –

what if that was you?
(my relief when the psychologist said

that this is post traumatic stress and not something you’ll share

not something postnatal

or viral

not some antibodies

or bad-mind

for you to suckle)
Your father’s hands dug deep into Australia.

Palms cupped and offering alms,

while blackberries snaked roots

to choke

and rot

the seeds he set in old coffee cups.

Barbs pierced the cling wrap membranes,

polyethylene spilling albumin and yolk.

His fingers scratching at coal, slate, coral bones,

earthworms fed fat on micro-plastics

– labial flesh writhing as neural tubes folded –

an unhealthy liver hue.

Your own flesh (too pale)

eyes (too blue).

Your father said it was obeah –

following us across the sea.

You folded in half, and half, and half again

until you were less of him and more of me.
He wet your roots, when he wept for what we left (his kin)

and for you (his son) untied from mother-land.

The damp earth will hold you – in dry season, in pupa, in still and dim light.

This earth will hold you – until we can carry you home.