When I lost the first baby not on a bus or a train, it ran out of me like slow paint across the walls. It wrote promises in code keeping none of them. I spent a week in bed staring at the pictures on the calendar wondering if the small perfect girls on shiny white porches would ever replace the black hole in my heart. Everyone was sorry I lost the baby. I dreamed of screaming down long tunnels shouting a name I never learned. When I lost the second baby not on a bus or a train, I had to have it pulled from me; a magnetic force of gravity against the earth. It started its slow descent into the whole of me and it was just dying, the doctor said, soon it would be nothing but what it could have been. I was spared the sorrow of labor and delivery by visiting a clinic for a quick hour of picket signs and posters of shame. I told them my baby was dead but they offered no comfort just a pamphlet. It was over soon enough and I went home. I learned of life as it’s sprinkled with death. Always two sides of a coin. The hug after the slap, the broken shell with its forgotten half-bird. It was no surprise or difference to anyone, that when they handed my daughter to me, this vibrant creature filled with breath and light; I checked for the steady beat of her heart first, before placing her hand firmly in mine.
About the Poet:
Amy Soricelli has been published in numerous publications and anthologies including Dead Snakes, Corvus Review, Deadbeats, Long Island Quarterly, Voice of Eve, The Long Islander. Sail Me Away (chapbook) Dancing Girl Press, 2019.Nominated by Billy Collins for Emerging Writer’s Fellowship2019 and for Sundress Publications “Best of the Net” 2013. Recipient of the Grace C. Croff Poetry Award, Lehman College, 1975.