Spring 1997 • Vol. XIX No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 1997 |

Stillborn

How strange that I told you, after coming in from play, how I wanted a sister, had always wanted a sister, the way children do.   That morning, driving home, the streets seemed achingly And you, resting, rocking in the basement near piles of tidily folded linens, your soft, oval face misting like the iron— how long after did it hit me as tears?   vacant, like the space between my arms Imagine, you carried that weight around— pressed three years of creases from the unused diapers I'd wear like a white flag, or a tiny ghost.

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White

By Jennifer O’Grady

How strange that I told you, after coming in from play, how I wanted a sister, had always wanted a sister, the way children do.   That morning, driving home, the […]

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