In a room to pretend
for a short time
we had a normal family life
our baby celebrating with us
but there’s no sound of her tears
what we would give for her cries.
In that space we discover
from those who have lost their
loved tiny ones
only to be left with
The bed spread is covered in butterflies
and we have time to take photographs
as if she lived
before we must surrender
the one we love to lie on a bed
of our salt water.
The midwife, Clara,
is so strong
treating us as if we are
like any other parents
hearts are made of tears.
She gives us just enough space
but not too much, catches our tears
as the butterflies fly off the bed
spread and around the room.
I remember the kicks
the time she lived
inside of me.
playing her favourite music and
the way she would respond.
We must celebrate that she took a
she did live for a few minutes.
Yet we are made of tears for her.
We long to dance with her not
We have to believe she is an angel
with butterfly wings now.
She flies through the clouds
of our tears.
(c) June Perkins
Jackson and Miranda in the bereavement room after the loss of their child. They are fictional characters but their emotions are real. I was watching a moving story about mid wives, and how some hospitals have a bereavement room where they take parents to, to give them time with their child before she or he must be buried. I am thinking of writing a piece from the perspective of the midwife. This documentary was so touching. I may rework this piece too, but this is the continuation of the poetic series. The plot is revealing itself.
In my skin
there’s a butterfly
dancing to the beat of my sweat.
It’s dedicated to
the memory of my lost child.
At the moment I keep my weight constant to
keep her memory alive.
But if another child should arrive
and make my skin stretch
maybe it will be time to let go
so the tattoo can mark my
journey back from grief.
Maybe then I’ll have a new tattoo to
celebrate the child I
am finally able to have
perhaps another butterfly.
Am I lost,
to mark out my grief deep into my skin?
To feel the tattooist working the picture into my skin
that is nothing compared to grief.
The pain of losing my
child’s heart beating
inside of me
is too much to bear so
I had to bury it in
the butterfly tattoo that
perches on my back.
(c) June Perkins
This poem is written as a character, and not me personally. I am thinking her name will be Miranda.
I wonder if she will name her lost child. I walk through this character’s grief and recovery and will have her speak to people she knows about how she is feeling, or not, or maybe go find her favourite camping spot.
I will concentrate on her journey to see where it takes me. I feel like writing poetry as fictional characters for a while.