When my eyes are closed
I see a laughing child in a field.
Flowers in her hands.
Her smile wide as summer.
She would have been born in June, they said.
She was so small.
Her body could have fit
in the palm of my hand.
I could not read my future.
It gaped like an open maw, eager to swallow me whole.
I sent the pill like a guided missile to my womb.
My body became a place of execution.
I was the blood-soaked earth, a battlefield
where the living dragged away the corpses of the dead.
I was a poisoned flower
blooming beneath a red and swollen sun.
Afterwards, I gathered up the pieces of myself,
glued them back together, until I seemed intact.
But the cracks became fault lines.
My life rocked on its foundations.
My child still lives
in my mind, not where she belonged.
In the gaps between
what I say and cannot say.
I do not know, I have not learned
how to forget.