First Days

by Sarah Westcott

I left you at the nursery,
pink-eyed with fisted hands.

You blinked at other baby’s wails,
lips curled on the cusp of a scream.

They lay you in a velour chair,
bobbed fleecy shapes across your face.

I rode towards a leaden Thames.
The office glared from yellow eyes.

I forgot to log-on, lost my pass.
Under the new suit my breasts wept milk.

When I got you home and kissed your neck
we were both already someone else.