A journal of narrative writing.
Stillborn



The one that would have been me, would 
have been called Eliot. And then, 
After the second stillborn, she
Left the name with him: either buried

On Dutch St, next to the cherry 
Orchard, or
Cremated, turned to ashes,
(Listen — when I
First thought I would try to write this, 
I had written,

Because I think it sounds
Nice, or looks nice, I've got

A secret, old as sadness).

She never knew. She always says (though
Now with Evan dead too,
It doesn't have
The hurt it did,

The sting to it she had described, saying I
Told the doctor.
I told him.
I said something wasn't right, I knew, and saying

The nurse said she would tell him to look again,
To listen. He only

Stepped in for a second, and said everything was fine.)

She wished she knew where they took him.

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