Olivia McCannon

Unborn

Once you were a frozen dead girl
I rescued from a lake too late.
I zipped you into my jacket and held you
against me for hours until I felt
your warm breath moisten the air again.
We walked into the city – so many people. But we couldn’t
find your parents anywhere.
The other time I had you on a cushion
under a shawl in a shopping basket,
birth presents tucked around you.
We were both younger then.
I raised the blanket to watch you as you slept
and under it were hard-limbed plastic dolls
with glossy eye-whites and shellac lashes
staring at the sky behind my back.