Rosalind Croucher
Miscarriage
I cry from a dream
that they took you while I slept;
yet it was I who made your getaway,
tearless, though my flesh wept.
I held you fast
as long as I could;
then at last you were gone
in a stream, a rain,
in a silent gale of blood.
My red hand caught you,
cradled you dead,
with a mindless care;
and laid you aside
for the cold exploring knives to share.
Little fish
nameless and pale
who swam from my womb
in that crimson wake,
forgive this Lethe rinsing my brain
of yesterday;
of the blood and the hard despair and the pain,
for any new corner's sake.
Page(s) 275
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