Helen Bowie
Fruitful
at the end of it all they told me that you / were a cluster of cells, nothing more / while I had
you, everything but you / was a cluster of cells, where I was / held / close /and I loved you
from year / zero / tolerance / the language of policing /applied to my body / and yours /
forbidden / fruits / don’t drink / don’t smoke / don’t stand / don’t sit / don’t paint the nursery /
don’t don’t don’t / don’t eat the forbidden / fruit / on a chart marks the weeks / 4 poppy
seed / 5 apple seed / 6 sweetpea // you were a sweetpea when i met you and you’ll always
be a sweet pea / 7 blueberry / 8 raspberry / 9 green olive / 10 prune / 11 lime / sharp / sour
/ 11 lime / 11 lime / 11 lime / forbidden fruit / grows no more//
I bury the emptiness
of my womb in the fullness
of stomach. Devour the pain in
chunks, buttered sugar rolling around
my mouth so bitter words can’t escape.
I am toasting a pitta when the message arrives.
She has a bun in the oven, and I am no longer hungry.
Hi, I'm Helen Bowie (they/she). I'm a writer and charity worker. I used to do comedy theatre, but then the pandemic hit and the venues closed, and nothing felt very funny anyway. Now I mostly write about trauma and fried food. Sometimes both at once. I'm sharing a selection of poems about a miscarriage, and it took a lot of self restraint not to include an apology for doing so. 25% of pregnancies end this way, so if these poems resonate with you, you are not alone and you have nothing to apologise for. Follow me on twitter @helensulis.