How to Handle a Miscarriage

Step One

Hold very still when you realize what’s happening.
Lest you collapse immediately
and drown in the first wave of grief.

(Or drown here.
If you do choose to wait, there will be other opportunities.)

**Helpful Hint**
When presented with opportunities to drown,
always choose to wait.

Step Two

Tell everyone.

“I have lost someone I never had.
There is nothing to bury but these feelings.
There will be no services.”

Or maybe say nothing
If the weight of even one pitying glance
might push you under
and you aren’t strong enough to come back up.

(Or drown here.
If you do choose to wait, there will be other opportunities.)

Step Three

Go back to work.

If you don’t already have children,
bring your sadness with you in your purse
but don’t take it out.
grieve quietly between the lines of your emails
remember to eat
and smile often
wait until you are in the shower, or in bed at night
to wonder if you are only grieving the child that wasn’t
or if the dream of motherhood altogether
is dead and you just don’t know it yet.

If you do already have children,
grieve quietly,
remember to eat
and smile often
fold your sadness into the clean towels
press it into the pages of bedtime stories
it will always be there
but only you will ever see it.

**Helpful Hint**
Remember, if all else fails, sheer force of will-
will see you through to the next step.

Step Four

Read or let people tell you about why it isn’t your fault.

Then, wonder often if it was something you did or did not do.
Wonder less over time.

(Or, drown here.
If you do choose to wait, there will be other opportunities.)

Step Five

Let people and animals love you.
Ask yourself if it matters whose fault it was.
Either way, the little soul has left
the child is not coming
there is nothing for it but to be sad
and let yourself be loved
until you have the energy to love others again.

**Helpful Hint**
If you hold on long enough,

you will have the energy to love others again.

Step Six

Every once in awhile,
when you are alone, and all is quiet,
reach down down down and so carefully
retrieve the memory
of that sweet soul
only you
ever had the privilege of holding.
And cherish it as
only you
are able–
that precious memory
made entirely of feelings
as invisible as the sweet forehead you’ll never kiss.

I Always Fit

It’s a glass jar.
I don’t know where it came from.
I was so little
when I found it
and poured myself in–
not safe
so much as separate.

I grew up.
But the jar remains
and I always fit.

I have children now.
And when I’m in it,
they pass back and forth
through the glass
as if by magic
to my surprise and delight.

Nonetheless,
I need to break it.
I know I do.

Pouring yourself into a glass jar
is for frightened children.

And whatever was out there
is always still out there
when I so slowly and so quietly
drip back.

You Should Go

I threw away half of my clothes last week.
Old and ill-fitting
I’m tired of things that don’t fit
but unsure how to take off this
modus operandi
which has become so tight,
It’ll tear if I laugh too hard.

I do know
nothing will change
unless I change it.

So I threw away half of my clothes last week.
It felt so good.
I bought new things
that fit more than my body.

I pulled down all my make-up from
the dark shelf in the bathroom closet.

I put my wallet and lip gloss,
sunglasses and car keys
in my first new purse
since tossing my wallet in a
diaper bag six years ago.

I dragged out my tote full of shoes
I never wear–
yellow heels, butterfly sandals, red satin . . .
I’d forgotten how beautiful they are.

I bought new earrings–
colorful, a little wild, a little ridiculous,
a lot fun
Just the way I used to feel.

I’ve lived here nearly seven years
and my shoes
my colors
my self–
bold, sure,
slightly ridiculous,
considerably optimistic
have been waiting all that time
so quiet, so small.

When my children needed
Motherhood took
more room
then more
still more . . .
There was nothing left
no energy, no time.
She had to go
out of sight
out of mind
so quiet, so patient
until lately.

Lately,
that part of my self
I put away
unable to part with her
even if I had nowhere
to take her anymore.
That part of myself
has grown restless,
has been rattling around
in the totes and closets,
thumping like a tell-tale heart
against locked, plastic lids–
against my own ribcage
whenever I think about changing up
the ratios.

And Motherhood–
that 800 pound gorilla,
who pushed her aside
who packed the totes
who clicked the lids shut
and walked away
with rolled up sleeves
to focus on her work. . .

Motherhood–
the last one I expected . . .

Motherhood just whispered in my heart . . .

“You should go to her.”




Waking up With You

The morning sun blazes
a burning trail
through tranquil, lowered lids
shattering the night
and my soft sleep.

You see it, too, and
only half awake,
reach through the blankets
the darkness
the hours we walked
through separate dreams . . .

until you find me.

Hands gripping hips
you pull me close
tuck me in
over your shoulder
under your chin
a place I fit so perfectly
the night is whole again.

And, just like every morning,
even (especially?) after all these years
I’ll count leaving your arms
among the hardest things I do today.

Enough pt 2

So the container broke

I sifted through

and . . .

it’s all still here.

Well, all of it except

the crippling fear

that these words aren’t worthwhile.

Now, I’m left to wonder

was it really too fragile?

was it truly that it was struck too hard

by some malevolent or careless, outside force?

divine destruction?

self-destruction?

or . . . .

did I simply outgrow it?

Enough pt 1: https://blackinkbirds.com/2022/11/09/enough/

Enough

I’ve shattered again.

But instead of gluing the pieces back together

I’m sifting through what was in the container

when it broke.

There’s no one here to tell me I’m ready.

No one I can ask if it’s good enough,

if I’ve met the goal

achieved the end.

Just me and all these words

that look like everyone else’s.

All those years

how did I not realize

I was still storing my worth

in the eyes of others?

I am calling it back now.

From every mis-place.

Even if I’m shattered and

have nowhere to put it

yet.

A Clear Midnight

I’m off for a weekend completely by myself. Let me type that again: I’m off. For a weekend. Completely by myself. Alone. No one else. Just me and some books and some knitting and some coffee and some wine and my favorite writing utensils. And, of course, my fleece-lined leggings and coziest, fuzzy socks.

When I first planned this little trip, I made a list of goals to complete with all this time to myself. I haven’t been alone for more than a few hours at a time since my five year old was born. I’ve daydreamed about what it would be like to have hours and hours to do so many things. But yesterday, I was starting to make lists of what to pack and I realized I don’t have the mental or physical energy for a to-do list right now. I’m behind on literally everything and everyone I care about, including myself, in a way that a weekend is not going to be able to fix.

I felt pretty disheartened when these thoughts crept in. I have a lot of guilt piled up from all the things I haven’t been able to do, things I haven’t had time or headspace to write, and all the lovely people in my life that I haven’t been able to connect with the way that I want. My cup runneth over with blessings and is somehow empty at the same time–a feeling I’ve become well-acquainted with since becoming a mother.

Then, just as I was setting myself up for a nice, long guilt trip, a favorite poem came softly and gently and quietly to mind. It’s by Walt Whitman and it goes like this:

A Clear Midnight

This is thy hour, O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing,
pondering the themes thou lovest best
Night, sleep, death, and the stars.

Now, all I hope for the next few days is to step away from lists, away from goals, and to give my soul a free flight into, well, probably not the wordless, my soul really likes words, but you get the idea. : )

this wine (written in 2007)

this wine
tastes like forgetfulness
with a hint of plum
and i can’t imagine anything
more perfect
i love plums and horses
and forgetting
and carl
and my dog.
EE cummings wrote poems with
the punctuation all silly
which was brilliant
the first time he did it
but after that wasn’t he just repeating himself?
i repeat myself all the time
tell the same stories over and over
just like a dog
barking at passing cars.
this wine
tastes like i’m drunk
and i can’t imagine anything
more perfect than
that other than
tiramisu although
it creeps me out to eat something called
lady fingers.
lets not talk about eating

i miss you and i wish you were here
wine tastes better
on your lips
and you’re right about
goldfish not being the same

i hate the sound of your phone
and by your phone i mean my phone
on your plan that you gave me
because you were tired of my mom
answering the phone at 2am
is the phone you gave me like the ring of
our cell phone bill marriage?
everytime i hear it its supposed to be you
but its not
and every time i hear it i think of you coming
home from work, but youre not
i don’t want to wait for summer
to sleep by you every night
i’m going to sleep by you every night I ever can
you’ll never spend a night on the couch
because i’ll never take the feel of you
breathing against my back
for granted
with so much time together slipping
through our fingers
while we wait for our five year plans to line up
i could never waste a second of

the rest of our lives
sleeping cold

i love you

g night

Again

Sometimes it’s been too long–

the reasons I love you turn back into secrets

and the words I would have said, I can’t remember.

Time turns us back to outside out,

inside safely in.

You will come home

to too much quiet

I’ll look up

and your eyes won’t say a thing.

But after so many years

even this

is familiar.

It will take a little time

but you will be you

and I never could resist you

and I will be me

but that never scared you anyway

and just like always

we’ll roll up our sleeves,

uncross our stars,

rewrite the end of The Queen and The Soldier

and fall in love

again.