Crib

I remember

when I was

setting up

your crib

I randomly

started

to 

sob.

I used to think

it was because

I was so 

happy, 

But now 

I think, 

deep down, 

I knew, 

I wouldn't get to 

have you

at 

all. 

Lightning

The doctors

told me

your 

condition

was like

genetic

lightning. 

A fluke, 

A rarity, 

a once 

in a lifetime

strike. 

You were 

also 

like

lightning. 

Here for a 

flash

and then

you 

were

gone. 

Home

I was so 

used 

to being

a home

for two

people, 

That now

I feel 

lonely

whenever

I'm 

alone. 

Curls

I had 

a dream

a few weeks

back,

Where I saw 

a little 

boy

with 

sandy

curls. 

I locked

eyes with 

him,

and 

at once,

My heart

cried,

Owen. 

I wanted 

to stop

and pick

you up, 

but

the dream 

was over

before 

I could. 

Mother's Day

Mother's Day

is around

the 

corner. 

And I feel

as if

I don't 

belong. 

I have the body

of a mother. 

The stretchmarks

of a mother. 

The heart

of a mother. 

But my baby

is long

gone. 

I'm a mother

to a headstone, 

to a jar filled

with

ash. 

No messy breakfasts

in bed, 

songs sung

at church, 

or crafts

made at 

school. 

My Mother's Day

will consist

of 

cemetery visits, 

what-ifs, 

and

brief

tear-filled

memories of

you.

Memory

It’s funny

how bodies

hold on

to 

memories.

Sometimes I’ll

catch

my hands

rubbing my

belly.

My 

heartbeat will

quicken

when I feel

stomach

bubbles.

I'll sing

and talk

to you

as if 

you're 

still

here. 

Then 

there are other times

where tears

will suddenly

fall. 

Most of the time

I don't know

what

triggered

them

at 

all. 

Names

Little man,

Little dude,

Little bean,

We had so many

Names for you 

Before you 

Were

Born.

I wonder

What 

You would have

Called

Me?

Choice

I’ll never know

If I made the right

Choice

When we had to

Pick how 

You’d 

Die,

But I do 

Know

I would choose

To be your 

Mommy

Over

And over

Again. 

Spring Break

When I found out

I would have you

In the middle 

Of the school 

year,

I dreaded those weeks

I knew we’d be 

Apart.

I’d be grading papers

And teaching 

Other people’s

Children,

While you’d be at home

With grandma Lisa

Or Tiersa.

I told myself

It would all

Be okay

Because spring break

Would come,

And 

We’d have 

A week

Alone

Together.

Now spring break

Is here,

But you

Are

Not. 

Grant

Why was it

So hard

To come up

With your

Middle name?

Were you too 

Little?

Was I

Not 

Ready?

Or was it

Because

I knew

Once you 

Had a full 

Name

That part

Would be 

Over

Too?

Happy

Sometimes 

I wonder

If I was

Ever meant 

To be happy.

Since the one thing

I’ve always wanted

Was taken 

From

Me

So 

Suddenly. 

Brother

How many

Babies

Of mine 

Are in heaven

Waiting with

Big brother 

For their turn

To be guided

Down?

Are they sharing

stories 

Of 

Mommy

And daddy?

Do their laughs

And giggles

Echo through

The halls of 

Heaven?

With the sound

Of tiny

footsteps

pattering

 on

White marble

Floors?

Are they watching,

And waiting,

For us to 

Be ready?

Counting our

Tears,

And planning 

Our blessings?

Death

I used to be

afraid

of dying

Until

my little one

died. 

My fear has

been replaced

with excitement

To hold him

and see

his smile. 

Club

When you lose

a baby,

you're put

in an exclusive 

club. 

A club of

sisterhood, 

lost motherhood,

and shared 

trauma. 

We comfort, 

listen, 

and mourn,

while sharing 

our

babies' names. 

Weaving friendship bracelets

from tears

and 

long-gone 

umbilical cords. 

We dream of a place

where our babies

can play

until it's time

for us to also

go 

home. 

We never

wanted to be in

this club, 

but we're here

together

anyway. 

Nursery

We have

a nursery

full of things. 

Except for

the most

important

thing.

Mazatlán

I've had a 

tricky

relationship

with God 

since losing

my baby. 

My prayers weren't

answered,

they never seemed

to reach

heaven. 

Then,

in a touristy,

old,

Catholic

cathedral, 

I decided to

kneel,

on an old

brown leather 

pew,

and 

pray.

In this moment of prayer

I felt

the heavens

finally

open. 

A warmth in my heart, 

and

a comfort 

 unspoken.

I begged for 

a child 

either

now,

or 

later.

And instead

of the usual 

silence, 

I heard 

the choirs of 

heaven. 

"You will 

have a child"

the voices 

replied. 

No due date assigned, 

instead 

a promise was given. 

That baby isn't here yet, 

but

I hope 

one day 

they'll be. 

Loss

When you lose

your first 

baby, 

You lose 

so much

more

Than little

fingers

and toes. 

You lose 

your sense of

purpose, 

self, 

and hope

for the future. 

You don't have

another child

to comfort you 

Or to prove 

that 

you can do it 

again. 

All you know

is grief,

depression,

and failure. 

You couldn't 

even

have 

your first. 

Who's to say

you'll have

a second

or 

a third. 

All you know

is 

loss. 

But never

motherhood. 

Grief

I hold on 

to my grief, 

because I could not

hold on 

to 

you. 

It Must Be Nice

It must be nice 

To birth your first child

And hold them in your arms. 

To kiss their hands and feet 

And see them wiggle 

All ten of their little toes. 

It must be nice to have your motherhood 

Not defined by grief and loss. 

Or to be a mother

To an invisible child. 

To only feel excitement and anticipation 

With each baby you carry. 

 Instead of fear,

 anxiety,

And traumatic memories. 

It must be nice to have only positive experiences, 

No nurses crying, 

Or apologizing, 

while they complete your last ultrasound. 

To never experience 

A doctor leaving you alone in a room. 

Hearing hushed voices in the hall 

And your heart slowly dropping 

As they stall. 

It must be nice to only be faced 

With the decision of choosing a name. 

No difficult decisions 

Where you are forced to decide 

How your child lives, 

or dies. 

Experiencing hours of labor 

Instead of days or weeks 

Of tests,

Decisions,

And unanswerable questions. 

It must be nice to receive gifts 

and congratulations, 

Instead of condolences 

And flowers. 

To have no one question 

Whether what you did for your baby 

Was right or wrong. 

It must be nice to deliver 

In a warm, 

Comfortable, 

Delivery room. 

Surrounded by family 

And friends. 

Instead of a bright, 

Sterile,

Operating room, 

Cold, 

And alone. 

It must be nice to know 

That once the procedure is done 

You’ll have your baby in your arms. 

All of it was worth it 

You’ll get to take him home. 

Instead of wrapping your arms around your belly 

For as long as you can 

Before the anesthesia 

Knocks you out. 

Because once you’re gone, 

So is your baby. 

You’ll never get to hold him, 

Or see him,

Again.

You wake up with 

Nothing, 

Except a broken heart,

An empty belly,

And empty arms.