Stillbirth: Five Months On


“It’s been a hundred years.

It’s been five minutes.”

That’s what my sixteen year-old said,

sitting at the table yesterday.

Her sister in New York.

(The baby’s ashes in New York.)

I can, without crying, answer

a well-meaning casual friend

who asks about the baby,

“She died.”


I just cannot

Stop the wishing

And the wanting.


Five minutes.

A hundred years.


Of wanting. And wishing.


And loss.


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