Wednesday, 17 November 2021



by Joanne Durham

Her hand steadies
his wobbly neck, his bottom
rests in her curled palm.
For a change, her eyes are shut,
his open,
grazing deep pockets
of space and sound,
sudden drafts and shifting heat
he doesn’t yet know
as the ceiling fan
and slant of morning sun.

He clutches the fold of her sleeve,
seeking the same heartbeat
that sustained him
tucked away in her womb.
His body born
from the thrust of a hard
push, trust born    
from moments
like this.

* * * * *

Joanne Durham is a retired educator lucky to live on the North Carolina coast, with the ocean as her backyard. She has been writing poetry since childhood, but in the last few years has brought it center stage in her life. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in Third Wednesday, Juniper Poetry Journal, Evening Street Review, Eunoia and other journals. Please visit for more about her background and poetry. 

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