I should have known when you weren’t willing to accompany me to the clinic, when after, you didn’t ask how I was. It was summer but might as well have been snow, you were that cold—how you scraped me off the lot of us like a plow, and if I were bereft for the placenta that streamed from me its river of blood, if that were not enough, you’d truck across the bridge each morning just as the sun would come up, not a note on the stark page, no phone call that you’d be staying late.

abortion
miscarried
love

Bio: Carla Schwartz