Messing Up

Gold cherry

By staticshakedown

Sat, 07 Jun 2014
  • 1236 reads
5 comments
 

The worst part is the aftermath.

For months I nurtured a mistake—

with just the right amount of sugars,

and with just the right amount of salts—

for it to grow to term.

What do I do with a stillborn baby,

when I have already loved, and named,

and in my hypnagogic states, dreamed

of putting on her first tiny pair of booties

over warm pebblestone feet?

Where do they go, those raw pink pieces?

And what will the doctors do with them

that I couldn't do?
 

Certificate 12
Poem

Comments

Submitted by maisie on

and very well tackled.

maisie angel Guess what?  I'm still alive!

Submitted by VeraClark on

I agree with maisie. The matter of fact style sandwiches that gentle image of a baby with pebblestone feet three quarter's of the way through. Your structure echoes getting to the end of pregnancy - then the loss comes in emotional dominoes. There are words bandied about in such loss, I recognised them instantly and you use them here -  'a mistake' 'just the right amount' 'pink pieces'. 

Just one thing - 'nurtured' is missing an r. This is beautiful and brave.

 

Submitted by staticshakedown on

Fixed the typo—thank you!

 

Submitted by scratch on

Needs to be read by many.

 

Submitted by jeand on

Beautifully and poignantly written. So sad.

Jean

Jean Day