Once I had a fictional house that had many perfect rooms

Each perfect room required endless planning

A perfect chair, just so, lights there, great stairs, exquisite family heirlooms


A vague-faced perfect man gazing, loving, looking at me standing 

Perfect grown-up gorgeous glamorous

Silhouetted against the perfect glow from the perfect light on my perfect landing


Children with perfectly old-fashioned names like Neville or Agnes

Playing sweetly with their perfect toys

In perfect sun-kissed, nursery-coloured brightness


This was a time before the rabbithole joys

Of perfect Pinterest fictions

Click-easy dreams, inner lives turned inside out to silent noise


Before I built a comforting construction

A perfect place for my dead girl to live, a home

In data, pixels, type, strangers’ attention


That was removed from imperfect flesh and bone

Something and nothing, just like her, where I was not alone


What has the internet meant to you since the death of your baby or babies? What would you have done without it?