ONE MONTH AFTER THE MISCARRIAGE

JESSICA LYNN SUCHON

 
 

I tell him the child’s ghost is living somewhere

in my lungs, stop trying to run from him, instead let him

 
beat it again and again from my body to silence its heavy

breath. He cries out when we come together, bites into my shoulder

 
like ripened fruit, and rips away the skin. The moon is bruised

and bloodied with want. Flowers fold closed like hands

 
in prayer. Outside, feral cats sound like children screaming. My heart

molts. Bedsheets fill with wilting black feathers. In the morning

 
he pours cream into his coffee, slices open an avocado, yanks

the seed from the flesh. He does not look at me.

 

 
 

∘∘∘