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Literature Text
I dreamt of an infant
Asleep in my arms
And her eyes would be yours
If they opened.
But she vanished into the morning,
She doesn't exist anywhere
But in my wishful thinking.
My heart aches.
The visions I had of me
Carrying your children
Are washed away
Like the chalk drawings
I know they'll never make.
That beautiful future
Hurts me each time I dream
Because reality's cold
Like the frost that paints my window
When I wake up each dawn.
The promise is there,
And the sunrise is warm,
But it can't melt the ice
Of my infertility.
Asleep in my arms
And her eyes would be yours
If they opened.
But she vanished into the morning,
She doesn't exist anywhere
But in my wishful thinking.
My heart aches.
The visions I had of me
Carrying your children
Are washed away
Like the chalk drawings
I know they'll never make.
That beautiful future
Hurts me each time I dream
Because reality's cold
Like the frost that paints my window
When I wake up each dawn.
The promise is there,
And the sunrise is warm,
But it can't melt the ice
Of my infertility.
Literature
after the tone
visiting hours are permanently over. goodbyes by voice mail goodbyes by cassette tape or too late for tangible correspondence; now by way of desperate prayer the gasp then, to heaven when hope collapses, the interrupted hallelujah, and all the sacrilege in that silence. transient transforms into endless quarantine -- isolation by the veil of death.
Literature
january
“did you know,”
she asks, sitting
beside me on the
sofa. the room is
sweltering, thick
like an ocean made
of air. a sea our
eyes can’t
see. summer
makes me feel like i
am breathing underwater,
like i'm suspended in
a world where hard hits
close in on me in gentle
waves, like i’m constantly
tumbling but i'll wash
up somewhere, eventually.
i do know. i don’t know
it yet, but this time
i'm landing with two feet
when the tide comes in.
(“did you know that today
was his birthday?”)
Literature
the greatest poem
The greatest poem I’ve never read is lying in a notebook somewhere, probably in Bangladesh, written in a language I can’t speak by a person I will never hear. I’ve never seen it nor heard of it because this person doesn’t know what they have and no one knows to dig where a mosaic is laid. And in the silent space that poem leaves I tremble. I ache, like an untouched woman. The greatest poem I’ve never written is lying in my heart right now, it's gatekeepers grief and shame. It’s there because of emotions I can’t give names for fear of unlocking too much and it all flowing out like a broken dam. You have never seen flood; you have not known storm. And in the silent space that poem leaves I cry. I bleed, from my fingers and from my palms. The greatest poem that never was must be in a dead man’s heart, or a woman’s, and I think of hiring grave robbers and a necromancer but the past is a torn sheet that can’t keep us warm. Although, some things can mend. I think I could revive this
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Heard about a miscarriage, and this poem popped into my head. My heart goes out to all those who have lost a baby, or a child, and to all who have found that they can't have children of their own.
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This reminds me of when we found out my husband wasn't able to have kids, and the subsequent infertility we're dealing with with myself. It's a touching poem.