I am pregnant with death.  
It grows inside me, and will come.
But for now, it’s wrapped and curled inside for safety.
It’s not quite ready yet.
I know that death will come its way,
And no plan of mine will be enough
To hold the flood
That it will bring.

When death is born of me,
When I finally get to see its face,
Will I know it? Will it be the same as
When my son was born,
This unfamiliar, ever-so familiar thing?
When this waiting time is done,
Will death be recognisable?
Will there be a friendly, new familiarity?

And will we greet one another,
Skin on skin, curl in towards each other?
Will kind people hand death to me as gently
As they handed me my son (or me to him)?
It’s fragile, this death of mine.
It needs holding, and very tenderly.
Death needs me now,
To hear and soothe its fears.

For it is small and I am big
Enough for this.
Death needs me, but not just yet,
Not until it’s ripe and ready to begin.
But soon, no doubt, I’ll begin to show.
For now, it’s like a secret — the flutter’s there,
A reminder of the seed that’s taking root
And branching out.

I’m holding death, and this one
Needs a tender hand.
It wants coaxing, because it’s shy,
And not yet ready to appear.
For now, please soothe my aching back;
The weight of death grows
Heftier (and yes, more precious)
Every day.

Anna Wilson

Anna Wilson taught English for speakers of other languages to refugees, asylum-seekers and other migrants in Nottingham. She died in July after living with (and writing about) cancer for six years. 21st-century Poetry is edited by Andy Croft, email [email protected].