Blood pours into the toilet
and my heart lurches
up out of my throat
down into the shallow pool of
sanguine water.

“Oh no…”
Is all I can manage.
I lay still all day
I talk to you
All day.

I stroke my lower belly
with a finger
and tell you
how much you’re wanted.

“Just stay. Stick. Stay. Come home to us.”

No more blood.
Just tears.
I can’t stop choking
on grief
for something that has not yet happened.

33 weeks later,
you are born
slick,
and small,
alive,
and
real.