Some Words I Hate
Letting go.
Getting over it.
Closure.
Moving on.
And one more:
Stillborn.
Gathering Strength
It took me years
to reach a place
where I could say your name
without a sob escaping.
We used to lie together at night
and whisper thoughts and dreams
while the house slept.
And I knew you best.
You grew inside me all those months.
I hoped and loved and wished
for your joyous birth.
But you died the day you were born.
I lost myself too.
We were that connected.
And now I've discovered there's more for me to do.
So I whisper your name often
and I remember your sweetness
and I gather strength.
In memory of Dylan Dakota Houk, stillborn August 29, 1998.
Hush
Not many poems are written
about dead babies
because if you've never held a lifeless body
and watched blueish skin turn colder
you just don't want to think about it
and if you have searched
a tiny face, trying to memorize features
knowing it is the only time you'll have
you don't want to think about it either.
So the poems are silent.
