God lures us into this season
with the aroma of hope
ripe among the stench of manger dung
and i want it to be about hope
but i am cracking at the seams
too numbed by the wind
at the foot of this cemetery hill
i barely notice my insides have slipped out
until i see them over her grave
it is getting colder and colder
and darker and darker
and it is time to go
so i gather my guts back up
and start trudging away from her
(that is always the hardest part)
and i halfheartedly decide that for tonight
i will invite hope to hang the stockings with me
and i will tell rage and doubt
that we can speak again in the morning
Less Than 1%: Surviving My Stillborn 