MISCARRIAGE


I am thinking now
about the one who chose—
and I do believe it chose
knowing everything beforehand—
to be just this bright spark,
the one who saw the brief
extent of the life ahead
and then still entered into it.
I am thinking about the one
who took on the agony of mitosis
without being able to expect
the triumph of a pulse,
the one who chose to ride down
in the boat that is of your body
and of your mother’s body
and her mother’s and so on
without being able to see—
already having seen—
your face.

I believe I am supposed
to use the word angel here,
but hesitate, finding it overused,
and yet now seeing that we
use it so often because
we are always grasping
after the kind of a one
who has, just now,
come and gone within you.

I might also mention
that almond tree—the one
with the strong limb
off of which hangs
the swing in which
we push our babies—
the tips of its branches
have finally sprung into petals
and from where I sit
at certain times of day
the whole thing seems
to be dancing with lights.