Points of light–almost fireflies searching for someone, mate or prey–but then, empty air between cries. Internal eye pressure mimics action. Like you, who stopped being two weeks ago, still tucked inside. On the medical screen, a rounded sac, galactic space debris. That particular silence that lacks a second heartbeat.
Words’ rhythm originates in blood flow, the opening and closing of chambers. Internal iambic pentameter. Here I am with one song left. The doctor probes, searches for you where you were.
Removal: three vaginal pills for $4.35, 1 sick day, generic pain medication, hot water bottle and tea. Removed with a doctor’s script. The opening and closing; release. Goodbye, my sweet.
The noun miscarriage conducts images like electricity. My mother pushed her baby in a tall, navy carriage. Here sunshine, there a new bonnet. Even night rocking. Shocks, seen and unseen beneath the tires.