You were the size of an orange seed
when I miscarried, still too small
to see on an ultrasound.
It began with spotting, light
as the steps of birds over snow
and hope that it would pass—
then cramps and large
clots that slid from my body
for days, blooming in the toilet bowl
like dark red orchids.
I know that every pregnancy
will be measured next to you:
five weeks, one more
And when I have children someday
I will think of you,
the one who came first
so they might live—
as if your purpose from the start
was only to guide their way
by showing me, with your leaving,
how much I wanted you.