Friday's lament: poem for a miscarriage

On Thursday
They told us you were gone;
left weeks prior.
An awkward chrome arm
with halide lights
reached out  
and snipped a hole in the sky.

Despite this hole overhead,
I believe your day is bright.
It’s good weather: you know it all.
We poke at hope with a stick.

Here the sun is obscured.
We are hot and it is dark.
Mom sweats blood.  So much blood.
It pools at her feet, black and still.

Had time allowed,
we could have changed our plans.
Now I’m suspicious of plans,
wary of the sun,
wondering if the hole tracks us,
with heavy, measured steps.


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