ROYAL UNITED HOSPITAL, 1997

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When Hale-Bopp crossed the sky,

Dad’s fleece jacket frayed at the edges:

his mind dilated into numbness.

When Hale-Bopp hit earth’s axis,

its siren culled the blood-moon

from its fraught position above us.

The telescope lens closed over.

Mum keeled under. When the comet

crossed our eye-line, my cries

measured 60 kilometres in diameter.

Mum took Dad’s hand, she worried

it tighter. When Hale-Bopp

reached our orbit I was a bud / brand new,

half-the-radius of the umbilical

bruise left at the base of Mum’s stomach.

When Hale-Bopp crossed the sky

my parents wound the vowels I emptied

into a single, trailing sound.

A sound they prayed would carry.