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.
∘∘∘