Feasts of Mourning

Nurses reached into my body
to ripen my cervix. They dropped
pills & a bulb to help the softening
& widening. I told them I could build
contractions on my own,
that I was made
to do this.

When I thought it was over,
I asked which baby in the nursery
was mine. They handed me all
of the squirming & scrunched bodies,
one by one, but none
of them belonged to me.

All the nurses searched my hair,
underneath the door, in the mirror, & down
my throat. I’d trade this feast for another day
I don’t outlive myself. The nurse said it was okay
if I ate the baby because all cute things
are worth devouring.

They told me losing
a baby is the same as the delicacy
of craving—your body tells you something
is missing. It’s the same as dropping
a dozen farm fresh eggs. You clean up
the yolks & eat something else
for breakfast.