Some days you try to
Imagine baby’s
Still there, still within

You. Still kicking, still
Moving, the small lump
Growing larger, the

Appetite for odd
Things still on your tongue.
But you know it’s gone,

The stillness like a
Vast universe, all
Quiet with dead stars

And galaxies and
Cold dust. You try to
Pretend the baby’s

Kicking, watch for the
Lump to move, hope the
Death was a bad dream

Drawn out over months,
The doctors lying,
The nurse pretending

That baby had died,
No happy ending.
Some nights if you lay

Quiet and have no
Act of will to doubt,
You can feel it still.