Miscarriage Again

Death,
    you are the enemy, you took two friends,
and if you can hold them you have seized the wind.
We weep for ones taken, and are as shaken
by bleak absence as by your uninvited presence.

At dinner, we sit around the table with living kin.
We pray and, when our eyes open to each other’s faces, 
we linger over life in a womb—with two fingers
we make small guesses—No bigger than this?  Yes! 

    Death, we do not want for grief,
but there is a Wing you may not reach beneath. 
There, your hand cannot grasp fragile forms
and your grip has ceased to close on even these
tiny
living human beings.

Catch Again

I’m ready.  Toss the ball.
Grounders.  Pop-up.
WATCH OUT FOR THE BABY!

Whoa!  Nice one!
Good arm!
That knocked the dust off my mitt!

Whoops, crazy hop!
Get your glove up.
Switch sides, I’ve got sunglasses.

You throw what I throw.
I want to do a jump catch.
Hey!  That’s too high!

Dad, watch this…TRICKED YA!
You didn’t even know
I had a tennis ball.

Suppertime?!  Just one more
—I mean one of each—
grounders, pop-up, fastball.

Do we have to go in?
Okay.  Hey Dad?
When can we play catch again?

Pacifier At Night

You wake in the night and sit there.
You can’t make it better
because you know
you’ve lost it.  You need help,

so you weep and wait.  By and by,
hands fumble through sheets
until they locate the hidden
place it came to rest.

Those same hands find you,
find your face, your
lips…okay, there you go.  Now,
lay your sleepy head on the pillow.

Hot Water

Under house. Crawl
Space. Three days.
Water heater. Anger.

Plastic pipe. C-ment.
Sore back. Stiff neck.
Grave glare.

Eight-year-old. Small
Hands. Unafraid.
Chips in. Questions.

Satisfied. Crawls out.
My face. Turnabout.
Wide grin.