On The Early Miscarriages Of Two Children

Death, you feckless enemy.
In vain, you took two children.
You cannot hold them
anymore than I can grip

the wind.  We are good parents.
We will endure miscarriages
and family absences.
We long for the ones taken,

but you are defeated.
Their names—Speck,
and Pickle—were given before,
given because, given, and

you cannot claim them.
You were uninvited, but we
still took our seats for dinner,
with our living kin,

to pray, to see another’s face,
to consider life in a womb
and form a space
between our digits—About

this big?  Yes!  Can you believe
it!?—We do not want for grief.
O Death, you made us weep.
But here, beneath the Wing,

you may not reach.  You’ll never
grasp the strength that forms
the frailest tiny living
human beings.