How I smiled at those women on the forums
Who termed their miscarriages ‘angel babies’
Who imagined them floating on clouds.
I scoff no longer. And yet
You are no angel.
I do not think of clouds, I think of the steady earth.
You are as real as the old yellow hill
With twilight in its crevices.
As real as grains and folds of earth
And the pungent leaves.
You are more real than the wind that twists the leaves.
And you are much more real than, say, stars,
For who can speak for things so far away.
You are right here
You could fit in the hollow of my palm
O tiny handful of being
I cannot give you more than this