how lucky men are
to spread their seed
then grow confused
about how to tend a garden.
how hopeful of my body
to keep trying to grow a life
that had already gone quiet.
she did what she was made to do
poured every nutrient,
every ounce of me
into something
that had stopped growing.
what a guttural, overwhelming,
strangely grounding grief.
in the shower
i rub the stomach
where your presence
tried to make a home.
“maybe one day, but not now.”
i laugh through tears
because i am exhausted.
maybe it’s delusion.
i struggle to stay upright
in the scalding water
you have already taken so much from me.
i carry your beginnings,
my body slow to understand
or unwilling to accept
that creation’s music
had stopped beating.
mija,
i think that to have you,
i would have had to sacrifice my vessel.
but where would you be without my guidance?
who would tell you
the intricacies of how you came to fruition?
to carry you
was to feel my mind and body panic —
to understand that creating you
was manifesting something divine.
you are the purest love
i have ever known.
gathering what little strength you had,
you made the decision for us.
and i let you go —
blood staining the carpet,
a violent reminder.
maybe i do give my everything
to what has already died.
Nunca Te Calles 