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, 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.