You burrowed inside my body
And made a home for
five weeks six days.
My heart beat for two
but couldn’t revive you.
They called you a “foreign body,”
I called you my baby.
My body became a fortress
to keep you in.
You wrapped your arms
around my heart and
we stayed like that until week ten
when you flowed out of me
and anger filled your place.
I didn’t know that you could go
that so many other
mothers’ hearts
were breaking too.
It’s been two years
but the anger still
bleeds into the present.
I dilute it with
the courage
that you left me
to try again
and again
for that second heart
beat
that now belongs to your
sister.

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