Miscarried

Oh Sharon. Sharon.
Alex calls me to your house
where you are upstairs
bleeding all over the bathroom.
The baby
if you can call it that
is in a waterglass on the toilet
and you are lying on the floor
with a towel between your legs
moaning, "I didn't think . . .
it would be . . . like this . . . "
Only a fraction of your soul
remains clinging
to your body
as Alex takes the shoulders,
I the bloody bottom
down steep stairs
out the polished door
to the back seat of the BMW
never to be clean again.
Spitting gravel
you are gone
while I remain
holding your daughter's hand,
her huge eyes
saying not a word
as she sucks on two fingers -
a deep beauty, only four,
your final
creation.

2/28/85

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