» Poetry

Trauma Bond in March: After the Miscarriage

for Chelsea

The tulips have flowered too early.

I cover the beds in white sheets

to keep them warm.

Frost pulled down from the stars

will soften

into a remembering

by morning. I am no mother

to the flowers or anyone.

It’s spring

and the world feels more delicate

than before.

Winter clipped. New wings lifting.

Doves adoring the sound

of their own song.

I have been told

some plants bloom once then die.

Flight is the answer,

though water can be an answer too.

Everybody (body) a vanishing act.

Seed without root.

And now the petals fall,

wishes to love

and love-me-not.

And now, the sound of distant laughter

enters my open window,

like ghosts. Softer now,

gentle weight of these small bones.