'The Moon is Made from Clay' by Keely O'Shaughnessy

The milky walls of your cubicle are far from the freedom we’d felt barrelling down the highway, silver moon filling up our rear-view, palms pressed to your swollen belly.

At my feet, the overnight bag we packed weeks ago is crowded with items from the birthing bag checklist found online: scratch mittens, muslin squares, sleepsuits. Useless now.

The nurse hands us a grey-white block of putty and explains how it can be cathartic to cast clay footprints as keepsakes.

Above us, the moon has dissolved, swallowed by cloud, and I worry that its hazy light won’t be enough to steady us both.