Dear Boy: It is true: You took two tries to get here—for your mother and me to calyx together a body bold enough to carry the grace of you. Amen. So forgive us if we still bow inside the garden of your miscarried becoming—:
grant us the ruined grounds of the first prayer fiercer than our cleaved breathing. How could we rush to rinse the word loss from our de-parented mouths? Remember this: we surrendered a new name for everything to the tender hour at our chest.
I bleed a little, peyote tea waits in the refrigerator,
a Ferris Wheel rolls and rolls over the highway
after the miscarriage, we search
for rings with missing stones, unmatched earrings
sell our gold, ride the Ferris Wheel bigger than Paris,
my parents pray for us, I play Dylan's "Spanish Boots"
over and over, the sunroof fills with stars
like watching a film of strangers I recognize
but don't really know
Schuyler says you can't get at sunset naming colors
between the liars trees and shopping carts
we buy a house, cry in bed, leave
the child unnamed
pink lemon pearly blue white