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Photo by bharath g s on Unsplash

Poetry | July/August 2021

After Miscarriage

By Ciera Horton McElroy

There is little I can say 
about that time, except—
the pain was inherited, like
consignment howls from women 
who wept before me.
Now I stroke my skin, mere
inches from the baby’s skull
like my five-year-old self with a doll
beneath her dress, pretending 
to push out life.


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