This Is All I Know:

two days ago, 
I was going to have a baby
and now I’m not.  

Membranes, 
that’s it,
the doctor said, pointing. 

She slipped forceps out of plastic
and like the shears 
of Fate, 

they cut what little was left
of you
out of me. 

Under the fluorescent lights, 
I chose, I suppose 
I chose, not to take you

with me. Even though,
sometimes it helps,
the doctor said, 

to remember 
something 
has happened. 

What is left of a body 
no longer inhabited, 
yours or mine?

Today, we gathered
the sheets, red with you 
and your dad took them 

to the laundry, said
he said goodbye 
and that the washer 

filled with water 
and that it turned 
a soft pink.