Two Birds

2 minute read

Author’s Note: stillborn and stillbirth.



you make a soul.

you made love
with the walls of
Mama’s womb.
you shared a space
I lived in alone
for nine months
years later.
you played,
you built
and you bubbled
her womb
with strength and love
for us,
knowing there were going
to be many
to pay her with love
and kick her
when happy
and dance to the
rough music
she favored
during pregnancy.

did you taste her hope?
when she shared her love
with you through the
umbilical cord?
did you float
when her hope
minced with your despair?
did you know,
Mama didn’t know?

she thought
her baby was
heavier
than all the other babies.

she didn’t know
there were two.

she flew with hope
under her wings
for her first baby.

but she had enough
to take two
under her wings.

you left her
almost like those
ungrateful inhabitants
leaving abruptly,
angry with the tenant
before she could
see you.

you both lay
on Papa’s
arms:
one for you
and
one for you.

you slept
throughout.

he named you
and
he named you.

he laid you

under the sands
buried you
prayed for you

a seed of love
sprouted
where you slept
touched
by his tears.

do you know,
you make him proud?

he always said,

“they would be taller than me
equally strong
carrying me
if I were to fall.
I would have had one right here,”
beneath his left,
“and one right here,”
beneath his right;

“if they were to have seen the light
of our world.”

he is proud of us too.
he loves his girls
like he loves you both.

I love you too.

do you love me?

Papa always said,

“don’t you worry. they are two of the birds in heaven and they have already saved a space for you,
and for her.”

I believe Papa.

and I know you love me
with a burn
like the one
that
Papa’s hot tea
leaves
on my tongue.

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