The Miscarriage by Amit Majmudar

I found this poem last night. I liked so much about it-- the author conveys very well the obsession with fecundity that follows the heartbreaking experience of its lack. And the bottlecap reading "Sorry - Try Again" seems like the kind of knife to the gut detail that must come from lived experience. I like that kind of metaphor of the mundane. I also appreciated the male view point on this subject--something I still don't quite understand even after living with it for almost three months.

The Miscarriage

Some species can crack pavement with their shoots

to get their share of sun some species lay

a purple froth of eggs and leave it there

to sprinkle tidepools with tadpole confetti

some species though you stomp them in the carpet

have already stashed away the families

that will inherit every floor at midnight

But others don’t go forth and multiply

as boldly male and female peeling the bamboo

their keepers watching in despair or those

endangered species numbered individually

and mapped from perch to oblivious perch

For weeks the world it seemed was plagued

with babies forests dwindling into cradles

rows of women hissing for an obstetrician

babies no one could feed babies received

by accident like misdirected mail

from God so many babies people hired

women to hold them babies babies everywhere

but not a one to name When we got home

the local news showed us a mother with

quintuplets she was suckling them in shifts

a mountain of sheets universally admired

a goddess of fertility her smile

could persuade the skies to rain Her litter

slept ointment-eyed in pink wool caps while Dad

ran his hand through his hair thinking maybe

of money as he stood surveying his

crowded living room his wealth of heartbeats

Pizza and pop that night and there unasked inside

the bottlecap was Sorry—Try Again

you set it down and did not speak of it

the moon flanked by her brood of stars that night

a chaste distracted kiss goodnight that night

your body quiet having spilled its secret

your palms flat on your belly holding holding

Forgive me if I had no words that night

but I was wondering in the silence still

begetting silence whether to console you

if I consoled you it would make the loss

your loss and so we laid beside ourselves

a while because I had no words until

our bodies folded shut our bodies closed

around hope like a book preserving petals

a book we did not open till the morning when

we found hope dry and brittle but intact

- Amit Majmudar (published in the October 2005 issue of Poetry.)