Tag Archives: Ros Hudis poems

Ros Hudis: ‘Caesarian’

Ros Hudis

Ros Hudis lives in West Wales with her partner and two daughters, close to the market town of Tregaron. She is taking an MA in creative writing at Lampeter University, where she has the privilege of studying under Dic Edwards and Samantha Wynne-Rhydderch.
She began life with the intention of becoming a writer, but got sidetracked into a musical career, spending the last twenty years working as a professional accordionist and composer for theatre. Returning to writing has felt like a kind of homecoming. She is now passionately engaged in creating a body of work to put ‘out there’ in the autumn.
Ros would also like to teach creative writing classes in the future and has a particular interest in working with people whose language skills are normally regarded as compromised  – either through brain damage, trauma or disability.
Before they split me, the doctors
raised a gauze screen. On our side
an antiseptic truce
held us in its gel –
me, sheeted to the border,
you coasting my hands,
as if we rocked
in a lay-by
of the Dead Sea.
On their side I imagined my womb’s
interleaved quilts – how
arms would tunnel
through its give of fabric
and the amniotic tide
might well to their elbows,
soak the crimson paisley,
its stitching of arteries
like a map.
Perhaps the heat would grow,
stronger, as they reached down,
suck at their sleeves.
They’d be nearing magma.
Tucked at the core, a baby
like a fossil migrant,
bone quiet and dry –
an imprint
from an older element.
Briefly I wondered
if such archaeology
would hurt.
The screen went dark.
When it lightened,
when I unclenched,
her eyes washed
over us, a lifetime’s
astonished amnesty,
warming, anchored, damp.