Miscarriage

 Fold this, our daughter’s grave,
and seal it with your kiss.

For all the love I gave,
you owe me this.


Inside of me, she had
your lips and tongue, my air
of grimness, thin and sad,
with your thick hair.


Inside of you, I trust,
she was a simple mesh
of need and paper, lust –
potential flesh.


And there was such pure song
in life begun from you,
I held the dead too long,
as women do,

but leaving like you did,
when only I could feel
the biding, body, bid
of what was real,

she’s put out with the cur,
the garbage, heartache, cat.

Promise you’ll sing to her.

You owe me that.

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