I’m starting this poem in the middle as the beginning is too raw.
…
Then came the appointments
and the ultrasound that wasn’t
quite right.
The quiet fury I felt
when the doctor’s staff
kept asking if
I’d started my period yet,
like they knew
some secret that
they refused to
let me in on.
We had named you…
kinda.
I wasn’t ‘allowed’
to call you
parasite,
though anyone
who’s been pregnant
knows it’s far from a
symbiotic relationship.
So you were
Pimento Loaf,
if only for a while.
I was afraid because
I didn’t love you
right away.
I was afraid
that was what
caused you to
go away,
even though
I know
it’s not true.
I’m sorry.
When you died
I think
a little part
of me died, too.
You would be
2 years old.
I think of you,
and love you
now.
I hope somehow
that is enough,
but there will
always be
a part of me
that thinks
it’s not.
