My husband and I have recently suffered a second unexplained miscarriage this year. Reading poetry is one way I’ve found helpful in processing my grief, though the poems are not my own.
You were a natural mother,
a miracle maker, with
nothing but the undergound instincts of our kind to tell you how to build blood with watercress and iron.
I followed your lead. We sopped up juice from an iron pan.
It was good, I told you! Delicious.
How did you know?
I admired your
flexible walls, with infinite, changing fibers, that knew how to do the reaching, holding, FEEDING so
graciously of our precious guest.
Thumbs up! I was amazed, hidden wisdom, secret skills.
Dear Body, you took the lead. And you were the one who KNEW when the seedling’s heart stopped
beating. How did you know?
And you stopped holding.
You let it go. You cut bait. You said,
its dead. You BLED.
You were wiser than I, who peered round in horror to see you tear down the nest we built.
followed velvet red
You said OUT!
Secret skills, unwanted wisdom.
Why didn’t anyone tell me in 41 years about this?
The women who tell, who listens? Except those who already know.
This poem can be found here- To My Body after a Miscarriage K. J. December 2008