I wrote these poems as a way of coming to terms with not being able to have children.

My pathway here was IVF. A 'two week wait' is the period between your egg being implanted back into you and the pregnancy test to see if it has 'taken'. If you didn't know that, these poems are for you too. It doesn't matter how you got here, it's the same pain.

Imprint 1

In a white room, in a white ward.
All is kindness, it colours their looks,
Their words, their gestures.

I have four mothers here. They touch
My arm, hold my hand, fetch me tea,
Call me ‘love’.

I wish they wouldn’t.

They show me the ultrasound.
For an instant, I think I see it,
Momentary imprint.
A spark of life in all this blank.

I cannot feel it.

Afterwards, freed from the uniform
of the operating theatre,
They give me the black and white photo.

I do not want it.

I walk past ‘thank you’ cards,
colour images of new born babies.
In darkness, Mine is grazed
By keys, small change.

Imprint 2

They haven’t left the house long,
Pressing keys into my palm,
Bumping chins as we kiss.

The air holds their movements,
Leaves. Spinning, drifting to ground.
The clock ticks. The house waits.

Cuckoo. Perch on the over-stuffed
Sofa. Unformed inside their frame.
I need refuge from this blankness.

Five doors in, her room. Pause,
on the threshold. No holy water. Toys
Watch beadily from the highest bookshelf.

They do not invite me in. Compelled, I
Enter. Mobile shot through with evening sun,
Walls stained with jewel-bright colours.

Blink, wait to readjust. On the rippled
surface of her bed, Her imprint, warm to the touch.
Slowly, lower my frame onto it. See,
Hairs, sparking on dark pillow, Smell,
Sherbert and candy floss breath.
Feel, a spine grind against my spine.
Forgotten picture-book, buried deep.
Rest it, against my belly. Lie
Here. Alert. A spark. I burn.

A two week wait, till they return.

Kate Smith