Tuesday, August 02, 2005

Stillbirth


On a platform, I heard someone call out your name:
No, Laetitia, no.
It wasn't my train — the doors were closing,
but I rushed in, searching for your face.

But no Laetitia. No.
No one in that car could have been you,
but I rushed in, searching for your face:
no longer an infant. A woman now, blond, thirty-two.

No one in that car could have been you.
Laetitia-Marie was the name I had chosen.
No longer an infant. A woman now, blond, thirty-two:
I sometimes go months without remembering you.

Laetitia-Marie was the name I had chosen:
I was told not to look. Not to get attached —
I sometimes go months without remembering you.
Some griefs bless us that way, not asking much space.

I was told not to look. Not to get attached.
It wasn't my train — the doors were closing.
Some griefs bless us that way, not asking much space.
On a platform, I heard someone call out your name.


Laure-Anne Bosselaar
The Georgia Review
Special Issue: Poetry and Poiesis
Volume LVIII, Number 2
Summer 2004

2 comments:

vixanne wigg said...

That's a good poem. Thanks for sharing.

Jill said...

It'd be better if you didn't have to know how to say all that you do so well, but thank you for saying what I wish I could and probably what countless others wish they could say too.

I wish for a better day for you. ((HUGS))