This poem came about as a result of reading an article about some hospitals treating foetuses as clinical waste to be disposed of. I then tried to write what this meant from one mother’s point of view.
No, you’re not clinical waste
You may be pre-term
But you were still my baby
You were still filled with
My hopes and dreams
You were still mine
For a time, growing
And living inside me
Still loved.
No, you’re not clinical waste
To be incinerated
It’s too cruel
Heartless,
Hurtful
You are still
My child
Once part of my body
Who I talked to, planned
For, mine.
No, you’re not clinical waste
How can they do that?
Throw you away
As if you were nothing
You were everything to me
I felt you move
I heard your heartbeat
You responded to my touch
I loved you
I still love you
No, you’re not clinical waste
They took you away
Before I saw you
I don’t know the colour
Of your eyes
Or your hair
I never got to count your toes
Or your fingers
All I have are memories
Of you growing inside
No, you’re not clinical waste
To be forgotten
Worthless
Do they think my tears
Are worthless too?
Or that
My broken heart
Is like china
Easily mended by the glue
Of time?
I tell you
There is no glue
To ease my pain
My loss
I just
Want my baby back
To hold in my arms
To feel her breath on my face
To soothe her when she cries
To kiss her better and
Tell her I love her
Oh, I ache for
Hush little baby don’t you cry
Mammy will sing a lullaby
