After I lost the baby, we went to a concert
Lori D'Angelo


I bled, and then I bled. And then.

Well, you get the picture.

Bleeding isn’t like screaming.

After I knew it was gone, we went out.

To this hippy dippy place. This

independent music hall.

Only $15 a ticket.

And you could shout out

to the band. People did.

But I said

                nothing.

They sang about

death and murder.

We went home,

paid the babysitter.

Then, we walked the dogs.


Miscarriage 


File this under the category
of things you shouldn’t write
about ever. Then, write
about it anyway. Feel guilty.
You will. There are only
so many emotions to have.
We’ve already tried crying.
And look where it got us.
Maybe, in a case like this,
a gingerbread house
would be good. You can’t
just put your own head
in the oven. Instead,
where is a witch when
you need one? Yesterday,
was it only that close?
Call this writing research.
And then, go eat
McDonalds. Wait.
In a year or two,
you’ll shop at malls.
Like this was fine.
Like it didn’t hurt. 

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About the Author:
Lori D'Angelo's work has appeared or is forthcoming in various literary journals including The Bakery, Connotation Press, dirtcakes, disClosure, Drunken Boat, Everyday Genius, Forge, Gargoyle, Hamilton Stone Review, Heavy Feather Review, Juked, Literary Mama, LOUDmouth, The New Verse News, Pequin, Praxis, Prime Number Magazine, Red Lighbulbs, r.kv.r.y., Reed Magazine, Spittoon, Stirring: A Literary Collection, Stone’s Throw Magazine, and Word Riot. She is a fellow at Hambidge Center for Creative Arts and Sciences, a grant recipient from the Elizabeth George Foundation, and an alumna of the Squaw Valley Community of Writers Fiction Workshop. She lives in Virginia with her family.