How unfortunate –
a detached fetus,
yet an unborn,
fragmented with still lukewarm
Blood,
A lump like a lemon,
lifelessly quite,
That greyish red tissue.
Flat placenta,
A cake marinated with cold jelly,
Your warm affection
Ichor injects
No more into the heart.
I hold (on to) it,
Clutch our unborn
of rosy future.
A grief, that is.
Alone in the room
A dead silence
Sing with the drifted weep.
Where is the mother?
O my
Love, “I am ill.”
I’ve been prescribed a pill to bury
The thick
Tenacious feeling.
Tristesse,
do(es)n’t leave me.
The stain on your
Glove merciless
Remark
Misty and mistaken and when
The pulse
Agitate your heart
Change your dark
Room of wound
How you depart –
Resilient victim,
Dream girl,
Mother without birth.
*Recomposed from Cut by Sylvia Plath
The Fleeting Moments 