Something Wrong

There is something

wrong.

Something is

not right.

Anxious heartbeats expand and flee into the night.

Though they escape, I am pinioned;

Trapped by gray walls,

lab coats,

sorrowed glances.

Hold me, please, someone?

I do not want to know.

I do

want to know.

I am scared

of the

something

that is wrong.

Cry Now

"Try not to be too sad" says someone.

What is, I ask you, "too sad"?

(My daughter has taken her shoes off.)

Should I not rend my clothes, tear my hair, cover myself in ashes for the child that is no longer?

Should I not weep for the life that is gone?

(My daughter retrieves her shoes from the table.)

Is it not disrespectful to my husband, my daughter, the child that will not emerge from my womb to fail to acknowledge our loss?

I will cry now.

I will clutch at my husband's shirt, bringing his arms around me in desparate need.

I will brokenly bemoan the fates that have taken from us this child.

I will not be too sad.

(My daughter is talking to her shoes.)

No, I will weep with fury and grief and agony.

But I will not be too sad.

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