Loss (a poem)

I don't often share my fiction here, but I'm particularly excited about this poem, because it was just accepted into a local art/writing show at my area art gallery. It will be interpreted by a visual artist, and displayed along with a piece of visual art that I've interpreted into written art. It's a pretty neat concept, and I'm honored to be involved. Also? I'm pretty thrilled with how this bit of poetry turned out. I may just have to expand on it.





I was born 
in a rush of crimson 
on a white day in January.


Naked tree branches scrape 
the empty sky; 
an infant's screams 
the snow-muffled 



The child is lifted to the mother's breast
the mother winces, 
blood gushes.


I am 
the afterbirth 
to my sister's 
anticipated coming.


"You have another daughter," 
the doctor says, surprise tingeing his voice. 

But Mother's arms 
were already 

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