He broke down
when his wife said
the baby in her
womb had died.

He seldom cried,
once when his father
was plucked with cancer,
another when he

thought she’d given
him the elbow before
he’d proposed, and
some kid stuff way back.

But this was a gut ripping
feel, as if some dark
hand had torn through
him and pulled at heart

and guts, no if or buts.
After she’d said it, her
words chiselled deep,
through bone and skin,

deep down within, and
he pictured the baby,
once kicking, moving
tiny hands and fingers,

pushing its closed eyes
against womb’s wall,
mouthing words unheard,
unknown, small not yet

grown, now, he imagined
still unmoving maybe
floating, he didn’t know,
just thought things. His

other babies had come
and grown and climbed
and spoke, but not this
one, there was the rub,  

there the choke. Górecki’s
Symphony no 3 was in
the background piping
through the speakers, he

had walked off to be alone,
the window showed trees,
the lawn, birds, sky, him
and Górecki, the music and
his own gut wrenching moan.