© -MFB III
Miscarriage holds no baby,
its carriage just sits
in the closet upstairs
gathering dust and cobwebs.
Downstairs a mother-not-to-be
sits sipping tea, her drawn face
a mask of sorrow, a Salvador Dollie,
but with no infant to go with it.
The nursery is a bright place
but the curtains are drawn,
and the shadows cast are longer
then the tomb just down the street,
where tiny Ruth Anne lies.
Dad is seldom home,
a barstool is his recliner now,
his wife can't have anything
fill that void so near her womb
so he drinks away the hardness
left by the softness fate stole.
Time ticks, but no one ever tocks
about the baby that wasn't,
in society one just doesn't
but the awful grieving
goes on unrelieved
in many lace curtain kitchens
and against many tiny crib blankets
all across the world at large,
less one very small,
in the wee hours of the mourn.
More by this Author
On the first day of xmas your true love gave you a schadenfreude Robin my hood... on April 1, 2004. ©-MFB III- All rights reserved As the rains subsided, I spied a mother Robin today dancing on clawed...
From the Palette of Mother Nature. You know where to go with a doubt Behold the handicrafts of God, ~ observe now as his Winter looms, ~ stitch needled specks of crystal white. Each weaving flawless, thick...
The Constipation of the United Blights of America ©-MFB III “ We the Puppets of the divided states, both red and blue, in disorder choose to deform a more perfect Union. We hang like...
No comments yet.