This poem is taken from Stand 216, 15(4) December 2017 - February 2018.

Denise McSheehy Poem
He is quite still.
Such a little breath, a little flutter, a little  
spring of the arms.

Head like an Easter egg
the one blue eye that opens and shuts once
to take me in.

Now I stroke with a finger only.
He sleeps and will not feed
his skin tinged yellow.

And my heart
that I have not always recognised
squeezes and swells.

I watch her watching  
him unfold  
take her rounded brown arm  

between my hands to keep her safe  
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