I wish I didn’t know after neonatal loss
To grab an ink pad from my craft kit and stamp Mae’s nose. To cut a lock of her fur. To ask the pet crematorium for an impression of her paw. To put her in her favorite blanket, with a letter and photo so she wasn’t alone. To ask for part of her in a necklace bringing her home. To make room on that used, chipped baby blue end table by my couch like a heart—for her toys, service vest, leash; the one under the baby’s shelf.
I’m getting too good at this. Too many urns, too many prints and molds. Too good at losing.
The Truth Is…
I don’t identify with “differently
abled”/nothing about a TBI gives me a
superpower//it’s disabling//I can’t parent
my inner child some days/make dinner
run a bath/without a phone call/embarrassment
between thick words/asking for help
isn’t a skill/I wanted to develop/it isn’t that
being different added anything extra
special/it’s that no one wants to hear me grieve
all it’s taken anymore/ability is a thing/I no
longer can handle//autonomously//
maybe that’s the truth/the ability to fake extra/or
special/wouldn’t anyone choose to be special
if they couldn’t be whole?
