I dreamed you whole.
I carried you three months.
September October November
I could not wake you
my boy of perfection.
You did not die, only moved
from my belly to my back,
December January February
as heavy as a hood
of draped and folded sleep.
March April in May
The year
turns over.
Milkweed fusses
in waxy clumps.
June July August
Still you lie;
I, still, am waked.
----Sara Lewis Holmes (all rights reserved)
Many years ago, I was shocked when my first pregnancy ended in miscarriage. I have long since healed. But waking to loss, this kind or another? That we all do, daily.
Poetry Friday is hosted by Sarah Reinhard.
Sara, that is utterly beautiful.
ReplyDeleteJules, 7-Imp
It's a beautiful poem, Sara. Just beautiful.
ReplyDeleteThis one brought me to my knees. Wow.
ReplyDeleteSara,
ReplyDeleteI just found your blog through Jackie's...I love it! I will add it to my favorites. I hope you are doing well. I look forward to reading more.
Gina
Wow, Sara-- this brought tears to my eyes.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful. Simply beautiful. Thank you so much for sharing!
ReplyDeleteYes, thank you. Yes, beautiful...
ReplyDeleteI'm not sure I have the right words for this poem. It's gorgeous and sad and perfectly captures loss. Thank you for sharing.
ReplyDeleteThanks for sharing this, Sara. It's beautiful!
ReplyDeleteJust the words 'the year/turn over' evoke so much with so little. As usual, your spare prose gives me chills.
ReplyDeleteI am staying in the home of friends while I am here in the State; the picture of their son, who was mistaken for someone else and shot, are still on the walls, years and years later. It is true, we all wake to loss, when we have dreamed otherwise...
*gasp* Sara, I am sorry for your loss. What a beautiful, heartbreaking poem. "I could not wake you" - a mother's deepest cry. The milkweed image is so sharp for me. I saw that early this spring and photographed it here.
ReplyDeleteAnd the ending? wow. The gift he gave you.
Oh, Sara. I know your pain too well. Thank you for this beautiful poem that honors and loves.
ReplyDeleteSara.
ReplyDeleteThis is how my first pregnancy ended, too, although I don't think I've ever thought about it in such a lovely, lovely graspable way...
Thank you...
Connie said: This was my first grandchild and I still feel saddness.
ReplyDeleteThis touched my heart as someone who's been through the same thing almost 20 years ago -- thank you for the beautiful words.
ReplyDeleteThank you, thank you, thank you.
ReplyDeleteI'm a man and lost two children to miscarriage. I know it is proper to say "we" and I understand that my sense of loss is not the same as their mother's. Nonetheless, still almost nine years later the loss, the pain, the emptiness remains. I often wonder about them and always pray for them. Somehow I seem to think that they are girls, my girls. I just hope that I can live a life worthy of being their father. How I miss them.
The last strophe of the poem will stay with me. Thank you.
Anonymous, thank you so much for your comment. I'm sorry for your losses, but I appreciate your compassion and bravery in speaking about them. Your words will stay with me, too.
ReplyDelete