This week we're very proud to showcase another rich, complex poem from After Babel by Christine Webb. Hope you all enjoy a bit of juicy dark humour - we certainly do, but we're inclined to agree about the grapes.
The Midwife’s Tale
I saved the afterbirths for Mr FitzHughes –
Don’t forget, Sister, whenever you’ve time –
plum-purple, plum-plush-soft… though what with blood,
water, cries (some women shriek like pigs –
It’s good pain, I tell them) and then the soft
head appearing, screwed up face, the tiny
soles of the feet… and that first high wail
strung out on a breath like the bloody cord –
there’s enough to do without packing up placentas
for Mr Mighty FitzHughes. But I usually did.
It’s his research, I thought, important, maybe.
Twenty years he was there. You must come to tea,
Sister, when I’ve retired. Not many say that:
flattered, I admit. And the house – full of small
expensive things. Now, Sister, the greenhouse
(while his wife made tea) – I especially
want to show you the grapes. Black, full –
cut me a fistful. Try these, Sister… and look
down: see that rich soil? Fertile, aren’t they,
those afterbirths you saved? Foot of every vine –
nothing beats them.
The grapes were almost
bursting in my hand – purple-red, swollen.
I thought, Mrs Jones’s placenta… Never
fancied grapes since.
by Christine Webb,
from After Babel, pub. Peterloo, 2004
