The twenty-ninth poem from my poetry collection Conception.

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Crescendo

A creased blue sheet ripples the cot
where baby lies peaceful:
arms and legs outstretched like a swimmer
stuck in mid-breaststroke.
Then a sudden scream shrills
as if he’s drowning
somewhere deep in his sleep
where adults can never go.
He twitches to life, still wailing,
arms thrashing from side to side
like one of those battery robots
left littered across the lounge by his elder brother,
who chooses that same moment
to make his peremptory demand for milk.
Refused, he shrieks
and climbs for the fridge,
toppling the full four-pint carton.
The kitchen floor swims with milk.
A tantrum tornadoes through him,
tearing at limbs and lungs.
He cries,
the baby screams,
my voice crescendoes.
He runs back to the lounge
– where the baby’s still wailing –
and I find him a minute later
treading water in his potty
slopping with toddler wee.
I look at the mess, listen to the screams
and long to silence the senses,
to collapse into the chaos
and bury my head under the untidy heap of toys
shipwrecked on the sandy carpet.

I take a deep breath.