my body knows
it quivers into december,
as warm wreaths brighten up lampposts
set against skies rich with winter coming
as oak trees hide their naked branches
and muskrats burrow holes high on the river bank
my body always knows
nothing is more predictable than time,
but calendars do not share any secrets with grief
i stare down the aisles of big box stores, bewildered,
and i wonder,
what birthday presents would i have bought for her this year?
Less Than 1%: Surviving My Stillborn 