Mother's Milk

I know these things
because I keep a photo
in the drawer
beside my bed

of you with the cat.
He’s curled round your
neck trying to strangle
the life out of you.

I found a white hair
on my new red sofa.
It caught in my throat
like a fish hook

and I swallowed it whole,
down my oesophagus
into the sac of my belly.
It grew into a cat baby,

my homesick womb
becoming a nest for a stray.
I gave birth on all fours
and you brought catnip

wrapped in bright blue
paper, cigarettes for
a new mother.
You didn’t kiss me

lightly. I had whiskers
then, along with the
post-natal depression.
They both left marks.

Lydia Searle