Two
Poems
Untitled
Some days now I don't cry
at all,
and those days I think perhaps
I have
grown beyond the grief --
Then, suddenly, something
fleeting --
dancing prisms reflected
on the ceiling --
remind me in a flash flood
of feeling
of that soul I already
loved intimately
in my dreambody, that promise
unfulfilled --
My heart lurches, scrambles
for cover
floodgates open
indescribable depths of
loss
downpour in searing shards
--
Vain attempt to nip
that wrenching pain
in the bud (just as the
life
that touched down
and flourished briefly in
my womb
was nipped
in the bud...)
How long am I allowed
to Grieve I wonder?
Is it permissible
to feel This Much
Sadness?
After all, they say, it
is nature's way
and I am not the only loser
by far --
And yet my sorrow
doesn't Obey
Timelines
or ask
polite Permission
It is there, prancing,
knife-edged,
fresh as the day
our dream
was felled --
Who knows,
maybe it will remain long
after new promises
take root and
blossom --
Maybe it has been
there
all along...
It's
Not Viable
-- Blindsided -- I hurtle
down from
extreme heights of eager
anticipation
to crushing bewilderment
in a flash
-- I can't believe what
I am hearing --
Not viable -- what do you
mean?!?
Surely Not this joy-life
nurtured every day
in my heart and mind and
body and soul, this
precious secret held with
smug tenderness --
not viable? Fetal demise?
Blighted Ovum?
I now know the meaning
of the word Blight --
it is one of those words
that make tears taste metallic
streams of
mercury running down my
face, rivers of blood from
the womb, searing
pain through both sides
--
Blight is like Crucifixion,
except you get to stay alive
with the pain.
Editor's
Note
Many thanks to Susan Mello
for bringing Megan's work
to our attention. Many thanks
to Megan for sharing with
all our Kota readers.
