Miscarriage

Withered words,
long since wrung
of emotion,
wrested me.

They took me back
to a time,
when the consultant
rolled competent sleeves
over corpulent arms.

To the moments
he pushed and prodded,
craning,
to test where tenderness
blooms.

To a womb
warm with gestation,
vibrant with vital signs.

Where scans spoke
in soft crescendos
to muffled beats.

When a heart pulsed
in harmony to its
own cadence.

To the joy of
anticipation,
fighting to force you
from your fluid
home.

To the bleat of
your birth-cry
beckoning me.

To a fledgling,
faltering,
and finding its way.

For the moment
your tiny mouth
molded
for your mother's milk.

To the day
when complications
consumed you.

To the agony
and despair
of an empty cot.

To the words I just read.

“Newborn's clothes for sale.
Never worn."