I gave birth to a large and imprecise baby

which I'll admit was quite a shock given

my fine distinct bones and on account

of the fact that I didn't even go to term.

One of the mothers in the playgroup gasped

when she saw me unbuckling the buggy

and heaving him into the sandpit.

He never cries or emits any sound

except when immersed in water.

Sometimes I take him to the coast

where he lies passively feeding

from the bottom of the ocean.

I asked that he be referred to a consultant.

The baby watched and pushed raisins

into his mouth whilst Dr Frankel measured

my head with a cold metal instrument.

‘It's not him it's you,’ he says, eyeing me

suspiciously, stroking his beard.

Outside, I smooth myself down,

kneel to his level and decide to kiss my boy.

As my face nears his, his feeble mouth

makes a jittery noise like a broken gull,

or the scrape of a heavy chair

just as the thin rain starts to fall.