Since the miscarriage
you are aware
of another presence
about your ankles,
ghostly touches,
soft brushing of skin.
You look out at a wintry day,
bare trees, dull skies,
mist at the end of the garden.
The nursery prepared,
but unused. You enter there
most evenings and mornings
and gaze into the cot unused,
but prepared, and if you stare
long enough, you can imagine
the baby there, if you are silent
and stare. Your husband tries
to understand, says he does,
but there is that gulf between you,
that gulf of feeling and not feeling,
of sensibility and insensibility.
Since the miscarriage
you are aware of an emptiness within,
a stolen being, beyond that,
that big perhaps, the big question
of if it's elsewhere some place,
a small finger at night
touching your face.
Feb 13, 2018
Feb 13, 2018 at 12:34 PM UTC
Since the miscarriage
you are aware
of another presence
about your ankles,
ghostly touches,
soft brushing of skin.
You look out at a wintry day,
bare trees, dull skies,
mist at the end of the garden.
The nursery prepared,
but unused. You enter there
most evenings and mornings
and gaze into the cot unused,
but prepared, and if you stare
long enough, you can imagine
the baby there, if you are silent
and stare. Your husband tries
to understand, says he does,
but there is that gulf between you,
that gulf of feeling and not feeling,
of sensibility and insensibility.
Since the miscarriage
you are aware of an emptiness within,
a stolen being, beyond that,
that big perhaps, the big question
of if it's elsewhere some place,
a small finger at night
touching your face.
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