The Miscarriage

I named her Maureen
after my grandmother,
she had to be a girl.

In dream-fields I saw her,
in sunlight--
messy, black curls glint blue,
blue eyes liquid and deep as wax,
chocolate on the nose borrowed
from her father, smeared with freckles,
and her dress hanging
lopsided at the neck.
Chubby hands reaching
up
to me
calling me mama
begging me to spin her round.

In my sleep,
I curled my arms around her,
arms tight around the middle
where she was growing--
that sunlit girl.

And with watery morning sun,
while the alarm shrieked,
I found the dream dying
in striking red drops,
shattering red drops,
slyly blooming on
starched white sheets.