Year 4


Once again we try, we fail. Maybe

Next time. Maybe

We should change doctors, change hospital. Maybe


We should let go, and will just never be. Five. Four. Three.

Two. One. You died baby. Maybe

You died today by drops of blood and it kills me.


To drop or to fight

Is it easier to drop or to fight?

To rest, to let go,

or to make things right?

To dream, or to accept and know

within your soul that the dream has ended,

that hope has faded;

No more forward light,

and the cancer will grow,

no masterpiece, no bright

mornings, no child to show.


Hormonal pains or The almost child

My egg, a golden one maybe –

My hopes –

The soft pains in my breasts –

Down the stairs and across city

I wait, I carry them everywhere,

They keep me company.


Two weeks

Two weeks, fourteen days, three hundred and thirty six hours

of barely controlled hope – at the least sign –

(barely controlled grief is for later)

it offers a beacon, company –

one step down, and another –

a little run, dangling, for the bus –

a brush of the arm –

a piece of paper, or a coin, picked from the floor –

and at night before bed, the weight, when taking the bra off –

shot-enhanced monthly kick or mammal getting ready to breast-feed –

I dare not think it too loud –

across my day and across city

it hurts, it shines.


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