Miscarriage Moon
by
Kathryn Miller Ridiman



I stand weeping, gazing out my window at the moon.
It swells, full of promise and mystery.
The tides that surge and move
within the bodies of fecund women have deserted me.

I am cut off from nature and life,
berefit as the tiny lives within me ebb and seep from my womb.

Three times in the past two years this has happened:
my body swells with promise and life,
my heart rises and fills with hope and love.
Then, quietly, insidiously,
I begin to bleed and another part of my soul dies.

I press my hands to my empty womb.

Where do they go,
these tiny lives that I conceive?
Are they with me still?

They are. I carry their unlived lives within me.
My heart waits and listens
for the chatter of a five year old Robyn,
the bravado of a two year old Jesse,
the tender mewling of a nursling Summer.

And now, these unborn twins that are leaving me,
will they join my invisible family,
the infants that I have not carried to independent life,
the tiny ones who have lived out their entire existences within my being?

They will.
I will never forget you, my forever babies.
I will sing your songs within my heart.
I will grieve always for you, but never regret that you lived,
however briefly.
I'll always rejoice that you existed, quietly intertwined within me.
Mother Moon, Mother Earth
Villarrica, Araucania, Chile