At Home, After A Miscarriage

by Cathy McArthur

Today I’ll sleep– comforter, flowered
nightgown—dark beneath.

At the hospital, three interns
lifted sheets and peered inside me.

One said, “incomplete;” I didn’t think
it could be me, but covered

myself with a sheet under the overhead light.
Before then, alone, I tossed lingerie

in the sink, the water ran around
with a red flag wave.

Outside my room the trees
were filled with small birds

and somewhere inside, a voice on the line
said over and out. Something died,

small plant in a hole, a ditch.
Something else unraveled, threads,

a roll of tissue or the newspaper—
something else was wrapped up.

Tuck me in and hold me like a child.
Now that you’re at home with me
please stay.