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.
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.