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Andrew Wylie

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International Festival of Authors, Toronto 2014

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Poetry

Mother and Child

Amatoritsero Ede
I a foetus nestles in its watery hammock tiny thumb plugged into dreaming mouth sleep-suckled gently
a curious midwife hand plumbs the throbbing womb
for warmth mother moans and heaves expels
the sleepy newborn who spurned brokes the water
that dams life slips-drips-drops through birth canal
into blood-wet waiting arms full of succour
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Creative Non-Fiction

A Difficult Woman

Leigh-Ann Worrell
Last night I dreamt of Isabelle.

Creamy caramel brown, locks of loose coils framed her face. She was Tuesday’s child: full of grace. She was lithe and long-limbed. Fingers were thin and lashes full. Her tiny lips were puckered and sometimes turned up with faint traces of a smile. I watched her chest move as she rested peacefully in my arms. This child was my child. And my child was perfection.

We were at a party of some kind, apparently for a family member: mom over to the side, sister not too far away. My grandmother’s voice was clear, even though she was not within sight. We were swatting flies and complaining about the heat. It must have been summer. I looked down at the weeks-old human I made with a man whose face I could not see, sharing a history I was yet to know.