Miscarriage

miscarriage

if i don’t call tonight
that’ll be the space to slump
a little, give a little.
like a lemonade lazy barefoot day,
the perfect peace of 3 a.m.,
soft down of hair along your forearm,
rumbling lull of tires against empty stretch of highway;
hypnotize me that way.
the tickle of a whisper against the ear,
the cadence of water drops
from an icicle glistening in a promise of sunlight,
the hum of a prayer chant,
hint of sage,
or flame dancing in darkness.

i am trying to tell you i need you.

in a new font—
for aesthetic reasons
and because it stretches the text
almost to breaking
the way skin pulls itself
into a shifty promise
over the womb.
you remind me of
an eruption of birds
on a brisk morning
heading for better weather
or spring—
cancels out the cold
but not after
a reminder of how little control
we ever have.

it’s called march.

sometimes spells itself like april
with lulling l’s,
p’s
that snap,
roll their neck and eyes,
dare you,
punk you with sheer attitude.

my silence
has been given to fits of clicking
aesthetically pleasing words
in aesthetically pleasing fonts
and yet nothing made
staying worth the labor
the marks smeared like too much ink
across the belly’s promise
and by the time it dried,

a miscarriage.

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