13 Weeks

After the test 
I misplace you. 
You are not 
in the shoulder bag, 
not in the raincoat. 
A cardigan arrives 
in the post – 
soft Alpaca, bouclé, 
light brown with 
a crochet edge. 
I walk around the house 
feeling like someone else. 
Then I find your image 
amongst the receipts. 
A book of poems, 
soup on special, 
bamboo blinds, 
an embryo. 

28 Weeks

These fists and elbows 
are dodging your grip, 
won’t be described. 
He gives you a murmur, 
a Chinese whisper 
coming up to your palms. 
You’re in the dark 
with nothing to point to, 
nothing to know 
but the rumoured 
shift of new cells, 
the fluid thrill. 

36 Weeks

He’s settling and resettling 
like the cat who circles 
and collapses again. 
You feel the hollowing, 
agitating and loosening, 
the flurry of housekeeping 
under the Medusa vein spread 
of your skin. See the wild 
proliferation of your blood there, 
coursing over the surface, 
inflating his veins 
with an ultra-filtrate of you. 
He moves now and you know 
not to be fooled 
by the lapping sensation – 
he’s descending 
down hard in the pelvis 
head-first, knocking 
bone against bone, like clicks 
and scatters, or dice in a jar, 
locking like a lattice of antlers. 


Angela Andrews lives in Wellington with her young family. Her first book of poems will be published by Victoria University Press in 2007.