I
who always turned from the thought
of carrying a child to womb
impregnated
with our future
and I glowed
like I had no right to

where were you when I
bathed blood between my thighs
felt the death of our possibilities
gut me and rout my insides

stillborn, we were
blue babies and untended
springtimes

I withered and tasted of ash
fingers coming away red
the burn of memory
miscarried

You
divorced our children
before they were dreamed