for abigail

So I just had to tell a former coworker that my baby died (in so many words) in front of about five people I really didn't know. I've gotten pretty good at this; I try to be kind to people because they're always so shocked and embarrassed at having brought it up.

Then I went into my office, shut the door, cried, and wrote a poem. Really, how do non-writers deal with grief? I can't imagine.

It's been 29 weeks today since I delivered Abigail stillborn. Only two things got me through those first few weeks after her death: my husband's love and my writing. Every morning I'd wake up knowing I had to face another long day without her, and I'd write for hours, then read it to Ben. It was the only thing that could ease the pain.

And yet I never posted any of the poems. I don't know why. I guess I was just waiting for the right time. Which is to say, now.

Here are two of my favorites, in order of favoritism.

Songs for Abigail

VI

Still the bells and muffle the drums;
with solemn step the parents come.
With weeping hearts and lowered eyes
they curse the day that Abigail died.

Let the trees shed their leaves in the summer field
Let the autumn harvest refuse to yield
Let the birds fold their wings and forsake the sky
The world must be broken, that Abigail could die.

Tell the mourners in a somber throng
To quiet their cries and swallow their song
Let the silence beg the question why,
of all that is possible, Abigail should die.

Stop the waves on the ocean’s shore
Stop the seasons’ changes evermore
Stop the sun in its eternal sky
Let the world mourn that Abigail has died.


III

It’s rained every day since you died.
As if the world weeps with us
and the clouds could swaddle our grief.

A hollow place in the world
echoes with your absence
the space where you should be, and aren’t.

I can almost feel on my pinky finger
where your grip should curl, and surprise me
with its strength. But your hand lies motionless.

It is hard to believe our hearts can keep beating
when yours is silent forever.
That was not the miracle I expected from your birth.