You thump around your life like
there isn’t anything else
going on in the ridiculous
birdcage of you–
you warm up with coffee,
you do the dishes,
you tell the dog she stinks and
laugh because you know you’re not
going to really do anything about it.
Meanwhile, your son practices
“Mary Had a Little Lamb” on
his trumpet, and you think,
this is it, this is the soundtrack
of my breaking heart,
but no one besides you would
ever know that.
She saw the way you interfaced with
how you quivered
and cried and inflicted paralysis
on yourself to make it through
the day to a glass of wine and
gentle chat with your husband.
She saw it all.
How could she not know you’d
bleed inwardly when she scooped
herself out of you and went away?
Remember the miscarriage you had,
standing on line
in the grocery store?
Remember how you bled like someone
opened a crimson faucet in you?
It is like that.
A startling, frightening death
of something before it truly
lived or breathed, and you
find yourself wondering
how and why you allowed
it to inhabit so much space
Now your kid plays “Twinkle Twinkle”
and you think of all the stars
you wished on, but it was only
a name puffed out into the sky.
A million moments will tick past,
you’ll decide to bathe the dog
then change your mind again,
look out the window at the birds
pecking their way through
all that seed.
You lost so much blood,
you were weak for weeks and ate
acres of spinach until eventually
you healed and started to move
normally in your world.
They do not give you an ultrasound
photo of a miscarriage,
but you have a photo of her.
You look at it and sob
behind the bathroom door as the trumpet
belts out an “Ode to Joy.”
Written as part of the WordPress daily prompt.
Extra special love and thanks to my darlings, Dani and Anjuli who patiently and tenderly proof read and critique nearly everything I write.