Your pink gown is one less thing for me to pack.
You are already wearing it,
deep underground.
My mother made it for you.
Years ago she carried me and I carried you
(before I took my first breath I carried you!)
A mother and a daughter, a mother and a daughter—and STOP.
Your death has turned my elbows into water.
I am not sure how I will manage to hold a bouquet
of flowers and make it down the aisle.
A wedding is all about family
and welcoming new members
I wonder if the irony will land on anyone else.
We’ll light a candle behind the altar
in your honor,
and that will be nice.
I’m sure it will be a happy time,
even with the blood
spooling out of my eyes.
Less Than 1%: Surviving My Stillborn 