Rejection  

The bathroom holds all the evidence: cardboard boxes with wrappers inside, 
blood blood drops of blood on the floor and on pads and tampons and liners. 
Little strips, two faint blue lines. Little strips, only one blue line. Blood. 
I drink a beer, finally. 
We cry and hold each other in the parking lot. We cry and hold each other 
in the bed. Your eyes are so clear when you cry, 
blue like how I painted your toenails. You hold my body like a child’s, 
so tender, afraid I will break into pieces right in your hands. 
You sit with me while I hold myself in the bathtub, rubbing my slippery back. 
My body processes the loss over and over. 
My body processes the love over and over. 
I am a living tomb; I try to plant the lilies over my eyes and overwater them. 
You read me a story aloud and not even the blood takes away the magic of that. 
Love and loss are twins, my emptying womb holding both.  
I tell you that my body is a killer, a dystopian ecosystem, zombifying and 
devouring the little thing. You tell me that is a lie; that I am a cultivator, 
that beautiful things come out of me, that I make beautiful noises when 
we make love, that you love my hair in the morning light, that my skin is 
soft, that I contain everything. 
The little thing, half of each of us, leaves with the gift  
of each other huddled together under blankets, reading and 
crying and loving. We keep loving, the twin of loss crying in the next room. 
I put the baby to sleep.