1155: Miscarriage and Echo | Bob Hicock
Warning: This poem is about a miscarriage.
"Miscarriage and Echo"
Bob Hicock
He or she let go of my wife and me.
The doctor said it, stressing objectivity.
Blood on denim looks like water at first.
Water interprets wind subjectively.
The child returned their face to the wind.
If I repeat myself I should say something new.
The doctor's smile was a weak cup of tea.
Blood on tile's a form of clarity.
When I say something new I repeat myself.
A child would repeat and erase ourselves.
We had a list of names, column girl, column boy.
We waited for the face to decide itself.
She stood in the door with blood on her jeans.
I was reading a book I won't read again.
My wife thinks her genes let go of the child.
The doctor said no, stressing his certainty.
The nurse almost tiptoed around the room.
Wind takes a broom to water, repeating its name.
My wife and I slept awake in different rooms.
We each let go and have never explained.
It's hard to prove by flesh you give no blame.
Blood unlike water never truly goes away.
Each name carried a different clarity.
We repeat to each other it's impossible to explain.
The doctor hoped we would try again.
When we touch she moves like water under wind.
In her flesh I hear the names repeat themselves.
Blood on her hands will never be new.
It's impossible to stop wanting to repeat ourselves.
We slept in different rooms with our shame.
It's impossible to bury names under wind.
Blood disappears into water without blame.
"Miscarriage and Echo"
Bob Hicock
He or she let go of my wife and me.
The doctor said it, stressing objectivity.
Blood on denim looks like water at first.
Water interprets wind subjectively.
The child returned their face to the wind.
If I repeat myself I should say something new.
The doctor's smile was a weak cup of tea.
Blood on tile's a form of clarity.
When I say something new I repeat myself.
A child would repeat and erase ourselves.
We had a list of names, column girl, column boy.
We waited for the face to decide itself.
She stood in the door with blood on her jeans.
I was reading a book I won't read again.
My wife thinks her genes let go of the child.
The doctor said no, stressing his certainty.
The nurse almost tiptoed around the room.
Wind takes a broom to water, repeating its name.
My wife and I slept awake in different rooms.
We each let go and have never explained.
It's hard to prove by flesh you give no blame.
Blood unlike water never truly goes away.
Each name carried a different clarity.
We repeat to each other it's impossible to explain.
The doctor hoped we would try again.
When we touch she moves like water under wind.
In her flesh I hear the names repeat themselves.
Blood on her hands will never be new.
It's impossible to stop wanting to repeat ourselves.
We slept in different rooms with our shame.
It's impossible to bury names under wind.
Blood disappears into water without blame.