Summer 1990 • Vol. XII No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1990 |

The Morning the Doctor

a kind, tired man, and notin his way without worry,came back to your room and said,"I'm sorry, but we've lostthe baby," there wasn't much more to say. Although the phraseseemed sadly imprecise(the fetus only four monthsold), our feelings about it—that wide, untouchable place words always seem to mis-construe—did not. And yet,how little we knew, looking backon it now, of how feelings toomisrepresent their power and dominion: of how,that afternoon duringthe D & C, losing a babycould be undone by itsnearness to losing you, a phrase, even now, when Istop and think, "impossibleto sustain," that cool,unflappable way I learnedto talk about it later, after all the tragicrigmarole of the nextthree days in the ICUwhere, given the choice,you chose, hesitated, slipped back under,and then, in the coldsweat of someone who haswalked through snow, re-entered the ice-hung glitter of your bed. Yourfirst word back was "Hi,"and your father, whenI told him, quietly weptinto

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Ilium

By Sherod Santos

a kind, tired man, and notin his way without worry,came back to your room and said,"I'm sorry, but we've lostthe baby," there wasn't much more to say. Although the phraseseemed […]

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