Solid as a pumpkin beneath my nightgown,
you are resting in darkness, gestating,
eyes shut and tiny mouth sucking like a fish.
In the hush of your father sleeping,
I keep vigil over a silk cocoon floating in a teacup,
my finger fishing for the loose thread.
The path to our door (your first house)
is littered in the seedy remains of figs
eaten by a fruit bat named Igor.
After dusk he feasts among the three-fingered leaves,
fat as ogres’ hands. We call the fruit bat Igor,
but we whisper through the night about what to call you.
No name is fine or strong or bright enough
to frame the shape you’ve taken
in the landscape of our lives.
Igor flaps his wings outside the window
and inside you stretch like a cat
between my heart and spine.
I lie still to gather you to my breast for safekeeping.
About this poem
This poem came at a moment of great expectation. I was newly arrived in Melbourne, discovering the city and anticipating the birth of my first child. It was a time I was literally swollen with expectation for what was to come. The dark side of expectation is the anxiety that things will turn out differently than you’d hoped. That trepidation that lingers in the shadows even after you’ve pushed it aside made it into the poem, too.
About Keri Rehfisch
My father was an American diplomat so I’d lived in seven countries by the time I was eighteen. I’ve always sort of considered myself a citizen of the world, and I suppose I want the same for my own children. This is actually the second time I’ve lived in Australia; I went through Years 1 and 2 living in Brisbane in the 70s. I moved to Australia for love in 2005 and have been living in Melbourne since 2007. I’ve written poetry and fiction for 25 years, but only just started submitting things for publication. Last year I won a commendation in the Victorian Writers’ Centre ‘Emerging Writers’ competition for Creative Nonfiction. I’m hoping to finish a draft of a novel this year. Taking a break from teaching secondary school, I’m an at-home mother of two.
