Give me a warning, I beg you

Is it wrong of me to wish
you hadn't posted the picture
of your dead baby dressed
like a doll in the gift another
friend made for you?

Is it weak of me to wish I hadn't
seen that deformed face and
the blue splotchy body because
he never quite managed to take
his first (and last) breath?

at least the license plate is laughing

.

sometimes what
you need to
make it through
is to follow
a car with the
license plate
TEE HEE
to work

.

After the latest hearing

Is it good
I didn't cry?

A sign of maturity
and self-possession

or just a sign of
giving up?

when the trees are greener

the way the trees are greener
in a spring storm with rain but no wind
water soaking the trunks and making
then darker like the lead-grey sky
making the world glow
a bright and luminous green

What you call beautiful

What you call beautiful

How could such
perfect feet so
perfectly formed

be dead before
you took a breath?
What does it feel like to dress

your dead baby for a picture
to remember it by, blue and hideously
deformed and never quite alive

and what am I supposed to do
and to feel as I look at this child
you call beautiful?

On a windless day

When you look
at the heart of a cloud
it looks big and solid
and you can't see any
movement but if
you look at the edges
for long enough
I promise
there is movement.

A beautiful problem

On the walk back
through the parking
lots, I felt like I was

constantly
                 dodging

butterflies
apparently drunk
on sunlight, humidity, and heat.

mostly flat

like a crumpled piece of paper
left under the bed for years
found and straightened and smoothed
but curling up again along all its
many creases eventually
with the help of flat, heavy objects,
it may be persuaded to lie mostly flat
but the creases will always show

The mistake I made yesterday

The mistake I made
was to wave goodbye to a
friend with my left hand.

When the crooked become straight

I stumble more off-balance,
off-kilter because I have
been forced on-kilter for the first
time in years.  Because I've been
straightened, I feel more crooked
and uncomfortable like an amnesiac
trying to live a life I don't remember
as my own.

how should I pray

Now that

• you are freed from this burden you never asked for,
• you are bereft of the doomed life within you,
• I can't pray for a miracle anymore,

how should I pray for you?

happy birthday, dead baby

.
no more chances
for a miracle

just separation

grief 

and so much pain

.

the waiting (10)

It's hard
for me to wait
for the birth
and death
announcement;

I cannot
imagine how
hard it is
for you.

Soon
the waiting
will end.

Blooming hard

.
hard to drive inside
the lines with trees exploding

like silent fireworks

.

The end is nigh

The due date is near.  It's no longer mother's day but May 16th.  Three more days +14 before they induce.  I cannot imagine what it must be like.

Recently, my friend said, "He's definitely running out of space in there, so we'll see how long he stays."  I wanted to just break down.  What a tension she must be wrestling with: The clash of wanting every minute with this life, no matter how doomed, and the desire to be delivered (a word that never seemed more appropriate).  The day of his birth will be the day of his death, so she wants as much time with him as she can get.  But the discomfort grows daily, the burden of bringing a death into the world, as Cordelia said in Barrayar (only more literally in this case). 

The pain won't end, though, with the birth-and-death.  And the mourning won't begin at that moment.  It began long ago when they heard the truth about their baby.  Oh, friends, I weep for you, but there's nothing I can really do to easy your suffering.

There are kids outside riding bikes in the rain, and my heart breaks again along the same fault lines.  Oh, God.

as long as you believe

chiropractor visit two resulted in
pain and less sleep as my body tried
to relax and curl up in its usual ways

and failed most miserably because bones
and joints were properly aligned for the first time

in years, but only once did I wake
in actual terrifying minor agony; after that,
I was on my back all night, twitching

or gasping myself awake when I did
fall asleep (I was recently tested
and found not to have the twitchy leg

thing or sleep apnea).  Pain today
like bands of fire and joints wrapped
in flaming compresses, headaches on

and off and on.  Still I choose to believe
this is pain like the pain of the caterpillar
turning to goop, so it can become

a butterfly, as Miles once said
--maybe in the Warrior's Apprentice, probably
when he was hustling a crowd of unbelievers--

or as I more practically phrased it
to the chiropractor in my head,

"As long as you believe
this will lead to healing,
I will believe in you."

like origami

My first chiropractor folds me
like origami, and my joints are
not his biggest fans.  He promised
not to turn me into a puddle, and he
is true to his word thus far, but
he says there should never be more
than mild discomfort, and this is a problem
because it's rare for there to be less
than mild discomfort at all times
even when he is not creasing me
into a crane.  Can the crane say to the folder,
"Why did you make me this way?"  Here's
hoping I don't need a thousand visits
to get my wish to come true.  I can't possibly
afford that. 

Why I like exits more than entrances

.
There are bars
I can push
with a shoulder
or a leg  
           no handles
or knobs to grasp
twist pull struggle
with fail to open
cleanly
.

the birds outside

.
the fridge is making
disturbingly human noises,
groans like a soul in torment 

but the sound
of the birds
outside is louder
.

this kind of blue

.

the sky tonight
so brilliant living
vibrant blue

backdrop seen through 

cutouts of bare 

tree limbs

the kind of blue 

that makes you stop and stand and stare 

for longer than you should without your coat 

because this could be the last time 

you see this exact shade of sky, and you want 

to store its imprint on your eyeballs and in your brain 

in case there is ever a time when you need 

this kind of blue

.