Showing posts with label Miscarriage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Miscarriage. Show all posts

Sunday, August 12, 2012


Stepping with bare toes across
meadows of balsamroot
I glide swiftly on grasses
soft from last night’s rain.

Quietly slipping between rocks
I meet the gush of spray;
with full pupils down,
tiny rivulets cascade my bare shoulders.

Droplets form and cling precariously
to my hair, responding as I shiver;
a flirty audience of aquilegia formosa
quivers with the steady rush.

The voice of the waterfall
is a mighty quenching of everything;
a gushing spray of explosion and tranquility, reverberating
like the sound of a mother’s heart in a growing womb.

I didn’t come here to grieve, only to soak
in the majesty of a paradisiacal place;
but my heart remembers and wishes I could have buried you here,
instead of where you ended up, in pieces, on porcelain.

I feel embryonic in the moment, wholly enveloped, naked, treasured.
Coming alive in the lusty boom, I scream, and moan,
and grieve, leaving everything here on these ancient stones—
laboring with the violent echo of women’s loss before mine.

I hold hands with the knowing barren wombs
and weep the deficit that will never feel your sigh at my breast,
your pink mouth to my skin, see the shine of accomplishment in your eyes.
They know how I feel—you were brief, but you were mine.

I let you go, but still carry you with me as I push through;
emerging back into the sun of life, weaker and stronger,
spent, and refreshed, sprinkled with pure minerals,
with lilac and wild lavender, and just a hint of baby’s breath.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

found in The Beautiful Sadness, dVerse and Poets United: Poetry Pantry

Thursday, May 31, 2012

Introversion Is Not a Disease, Disorder, or Handicap

There are things we do because of the way we are, not in spite of them.

Near the end of 2006 I suffered my second miscarriage.  I’d had caring family and friends come by; offering condolences, wrapping me in big hugs, offering words of sympathy and encouragement, and bringing flowers and goodies.  All well-meaning, and all appreciated. 

In the evening as I was sitting alone on my bed quietly grieving, my then 6 year old son, Clint, came into the room.  He climbed gently onto the bed and took my hand.  He had an aura of peace and concern; and as he sat silently holding my hand, tears trickled down my cheeks.  We sat there together for several long minutes, holding hands, in the quiet.  He was not uncomfortable with the silence or my falling tears.  He didn’t even ask any questions.  He simply understood.  He knew that sometimes there are no words; and that's ok, there needn't be any.  His intuitive, introverted temperament allowed him to just be with me in that moment and it healed me more than any spoken word.  After a few minutes more I whispered “thank you,” he nodded purposefully, climbed off the bed and left the room.  I smiled and shook my head.

It was pure genius.