Miscarriage

Miscarriage February 9th again, and once again I lose the baby, a fog of nose and arms and legs— a world not sea-blue, but blood-red, full of volcanic beginning. Ending in February: bark-littered snow, limb-battered oaks. A split-stripped weeping willow creaks. Once it seemed I could hold what was needed to swaddle nothing into something—something …

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