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For the story behind this poem, which appeared in New Writing Scotland, read my blog.
GREY BABY
BY IAN HUNTER
Just a nick the midwife says
the blade and the blood moving
everything up a gear
the sliver of scalp and dark hair widens
as the head emerges and you
stand ready, scissors in your hand,
names on your lips,
like some ship-launching ceremony
but the champagne goes quickly flat
with the sight of the cord around the
baby's neck
to heighten the drama the monitor
now refuses to show any heartbeat
and you can't seem to get the words
oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck
out of your head
as you stand rigid, until elbowed
aside by the other midwife
naming and cutting forgotten now
your sweaty hand holding your wife
back from the edge of exhaustion
and the baby appears
a boy, grey, lifeless
like some sort of glistening frog
waiting for dissection
arms and legs stretched out, frozen
the shock of life too great
we'll just clean out his tubes
the midwife says as they take
away your son
and your wife's hand opens
hours of effort and drugs take
their toll
she slips away, leaving you
not quite alone, but still the loneliest
you have ever felt
while you stand, shuffling,
after seven hours,
desperate for a pee,
just desperate
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