A chronological collection of writing during my son’s first fortnight of life, in Neonatal ICU.
And as the poems become unfinished, the titles coming first and the thoughts failing
To complete, the end of form is lost to ellipsis. The thought of a sonnet,
Absurd in its complexity, makes me weary as… an
Unfinished simile. Or a failed metaphor.
There goes another thought,
Of that line to this,
You, yes you, are phase
Shifted from the ironically named
‘Family Room’ to right beside Finlay’s crib,
Where we stand and witness a doctor’s fist pump
And enthusiastic “Yes!”, after clearing some mucus from
His quivering chest, improving his gasses, while oxygen intake
Remains relatively static at 99, with only a little bit of Nitric Oxide.
We might even see him open his eyes this time tomorrow, and, suddenly,
With eyes equally as wide, I cannot find the pessimism within to believe otherwise.