Borne pain

At six months the doctor said
The fetus though small is fine
At seven months, apologies,
The child you’re carrying is dead.
At eight months, induced labor
Would you like to see your son
Amid the grief, so great
You nodded no
Your heart removed
Your wailing soul
would not permit the sight

Out of body
Not out of mind
Out of the country
Bury it behind
Visit friends, family abroad
Tears, silence, soft embraces
Hopefully healing
Then my aunt’s pictures
Of her new grandchild
You died again
and again
with each photo
Damning indictment of life lost

Visit cut short,
back to England
back to emptiness
and each other
alone
no photos to show
no proof of our angel
labor’s pain for nought
except for pain itself