my daughter. curled like a cat
breathes. eyes bright so i might
drown in her sincerity
her unread book ghosting the shelves.
for she sleeps between my fantasies
the ones my arms held tight
for years. and only now do i accept
my motherless reality which ends
my pointless pining
for the never was to be.
i hope she’s chosen well
my unmet child of infertility. a woman
well deserving who will love her better than i
ever could. indeed. my unborn daughter
thrives. somewhere
u n k n o w n.
© Sally A Mortemore 2025. All Rights Reserved
With grateful thanks as ever to The Howling Owl and all its editors. Happy Easter.
