this is the other shoe dropping   

the sound of loss
before you have seen it  
just traces of its scent
lingering just out of reach
so you know
it’s been almost close enough
to touch  

this is the taste of food
making you sick  

this is toilet bowls
of vomit and blood  

clumps of uterine lining
and fetal tissue  

marbles of pain
rolling along your hips
and spine  

this is the last time your mother told you she loved you it felt out of obligation  

this is they let your calls
go to voicemails
they don’t listen to  

this is the timeline for your grief should have ended by now  

this is all the tiny clothes
you bought
closed up in boxes
shut into the guestroom closet  

this is a car seat
pressed into the corner of the garage
a flag draped over it  

a crib
sleeping against a wall