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.


Salvaging Beauty

(for Alan)


Peonies are blooming

to the point of collapse.

They lean into each other

with nothing to say.

Gracing lawn and stones,

thousands of fragrant petals,

extravagant as wings



To make final bouquets, I take

every flower that does not dissolve

at touch—late blooms, buds

surrounding first display—

pinks, bold and blushed;

shameless yellow;

white, center-stained

with crimson.


Every vase chipped

or cracked I fill;

vases on every table

in the house. I leave

the lawn scattered

with petals and stems.

I wait for the scent

of this dying