Twilight Sleep

A poem by Ieva Dapkevicius

Morphine, scopolamine—a thin sleep-lace

of nightshade is draped over her eyes,

administered in precise doses:

a tonic against original sin.

In her twilight sleep she dreams

the dreams of an amnesiac, wandering

the long corridors of the mind, opening

doors which are locked in waking.

Only the pain stubbornly remains, staining

the edges of her delirium: she sees

pomegranate seeds, children's ruby teeth,

glisten in the crush.

Such are the wonders of modern medicine.

Without knowing it, she has given birth

to a child-shaped void in her memory,

vivid and bruise purple.

The word 'mother' echoes, saccharine

and veined through with a bitter aftertaste,

clinging like cobwebs to her nightgown.

Consciousness takes her by force—

and still within her waking she sleeps,

and within her heart she cannot recall

at all what she was meant to feel

about this strange fruit of her womb

lying so still,

a perfect anatomical figurine

made from her bones, her hair, her skin.

Ieva Dapkevicius (she/they) is a Lithuanian-Portuguese poet and scientist. They have been published in Ink Drinkers Magazine and in the Renard Press New Beginnings anthology. In 2021 they founded the Orangery Literary Society, a cosy online community for up-and-coming writers.

© Ieva Dapkevicius. All rights reserved.