Miscarriage
Gauzy film between
evergreens is a web
of loss. Get closer. Reach
to touch the shimmering
gossamer and your finger
pushes through. Remember
filling that space with desire?
Someone else might grieve
the spider who abandoned
this home; others grow anxious
waiting for a deer’s walk
to wreck it. But you—
you grieve the net of thought
spun inside your own womb:
intricate and glossy and strong.
Copyright © 2024 by Christine Stewart-Nuñez. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 14, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.
“After each of my four miscarriages, I cataloged the responses I received from others when they heard my news. This poem offers my silent response, so impossible for me to articulate in everyday language when confronted in real life and in real time. In ‘Miscarriage,’ I remind myself that I grieve fictions anchored in the material space of my body. I hope this poem invites readers to story their own grief in ways that bring them solace, however fleeting it may be.”
—Christine Stewart-Nuñez
Christine Stewart-Nuñez
Christine Stewart-Nuñez is the author of seven books of poetry, including The Poet & The Architect (Terrapin Books, 2021); Bluewords Greening (Terrapin Books, 2016), winner of the 2018 Whirling Prize; and Untrussed (University of New Mexico Press, 2016).