Miscarriage

My husband holds me by the waist,
walking me carefully across the street,
and asks if I am okay,
though I know he is also not
 
My mother sends four text messages
waiting for my call, chokes
down marble-sized tears when I tell her,
and breathes audibly into our silence
 
My brother hugs me tightly with one arm,
chooses "I love you," over "I told you so,"
consoles me like we are still children
now that I'm no longer carrying one
 
Co-workers ask me how mama is feeling
and because I refuse to cry at work again,
I minimize and detach, say "It's a no-go,"
and lie that the warning signs made it easier
 
My sister sends sonograms of her baby-to-be,
images of a large head encircled by a tiny frame
so distinctly divergent from the imperfect circle
and scattered squiggly lines I saw on mine
 
My father says little but makes the sweetheart
cider, perfecting the recipe to six parts apples,
one part triple sec, and one part tequila,
the whole carafe concocted just for me