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.

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