content warning for miscarriage

What I know about love so far

I.

I once read that when a woman lost her baby
it was her husband who knelt
by the bathtub alone, and washed the blood out
of her underwear, letting flesh
and cold water
run over his shaking fingers

He was the one who wrapped their baby 
in their best hand towel, saw that its skin
was like clear, spun thread, 
so new it was to living 
it hadn’t yet learned to hide.

II.

I used to think a marriage was made
of what you could build together
instead of what you can survive 

I remember the day we drove our little boy home
and said goodbye
How the August sun drew
outlines of dry, golden leaves
over the skin of his little arms.
How he was too small
to understand that it was the last time.
After, we carried only his smell of shea
and lavender.

III.

I still wake up at night and find
your fingers in the dark 

The same dogs bark
outside our house and trample
the yellow daffodils

we never planted—the seeds
just came to us
in the wind.

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