Sidrah Zubair

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I’m with child

I made a baby out of dried
rose petal powder
and fuller’s earth, all on my own

I name it inqilab even though
I know there will be no new
revolutions happening soon

this baby is a bit annoying
because it keeps melting
at night, making oily messes

I keep shaping its body into new
creations like a swan-dragon
hybrid, adorable but menacing

my grandmother comes back
from her grave to ask me “are you
feeding it properly”

I give it chamomile milk for breakfast
and mashed edamame with honey
for dinner, followed by ginger tea

it smacks its salivating lips and says
“thank you” – I blaze softly with
pride, commending my parenting

it has apricot eyes and a soft,
cushion head which smells like
lemon oil mixed with bergamot

this baby doesn’t poop
but likes to spit out
little purple gloop every morning

I collect the sticky balls and put
them in a glass jar which sits
proudly on my study desk

the baby knows when
I am sad so it sings upbeat
covers of my favourite songs

we dance in my garden
its head bobbing funnily
as I lift it up and down

my friend calls me and says
“congratulations! who’s the
father?” to which I throw

my phone into the recycling bin
kill the carrier pigeons
and destroy my letterbox

to remove any chances
of another fat bearded man
in a stained white shalwar kameez

with small red eyes and thorn
hands who tries to come
and take unsuspecting children away

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SIDRAH ZUBAIR completed her MA in Creative Writing from Durham and her BA from Goldsmiths. She has previously been published in ZARF Poetry, PERVERSE, and Screaming Into a Horse’s Mouth. She lives and works in London.