Like ink on a white blouse
It is an indelible loss – like ink on a white blouse,
something ruined, irreversible.
Bright red swirls in the morning waters.
You stare silently, you think it might be a dream,
a dream just before waking
You’re losing something but you cannot stop it.
Your husband is running up the stairs.
Waiting for the doctor to phone
watching television blindly.
Not moving, so as not to stir things up, not to feel anything
Thinking, perhaps this is the worst day of my life.
What they didn’t tell you
is that it’s not over in a minute, or even a half hour.
You will eat lunch in an Indian restaurant
and at an odd instant recall
you are having a miscarriage.
“It was never viable,” the doctor explains.
You can’t seem to hear her – you notice her kind eyebrows.
The nurses locate places for you to weep.
“Get my husband – I can’t understand the doctor.”
Tears springing, as if to wash away this wrong story.
Waiting for her to say there is still a baby somewhere.