She comes to me after midnight
when my mind is nurtured be milky moonlight
my mind succumbs to the tune—
jazz trumpeting from the radio.
For four months
inside of me.
The blood stained our mattress—
the wound won’t heal.
The maternity clothes dangle, lifeless
on metal hangers.
Alone: you are driving away from me
towards moonlight on farmers’ fields.
The harvest. Stars go on forever.
Do you hear the jazz tune playing?
I want my butterfly child back—
her tiny heart beating beneath skin.
Even though she’s gone
she’s still closer to me
than you’ll ever be.
—Candice G. Ball