Miscarriage
They tell me God exists.
I’m not so sure.
They tell me I exist.
I have my doubts.
It’s said I raged like a star
after you crossed
out of time
forever. Raged
and then collapsed.
I can’t deny or confirm.
I can only stand on the edge
of your distance.
I can only peer down into your
absence
at my reflection.
Then turn away.
They say God loves us
one and all.
I can’t confirm or deny.
I only know
we are lucky
if we send out feeling
and it comes back song.
Our doctor explained
you felt nothing
no pain
at the end.
I’d like to believe.
I’d like to believe
there is a God
who sent a letter of love
to His creation
but forgot the postage.
I’d like to believe you
were that letter.
And had (it’s only fair)
to be returned.
Copyright © 2026 by Gregory Fraser. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on October 22, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.
“My wife [Milada] and I had to start our family through in vitro fertilization. Eventually, we were fortunate to have twins—a girl and a boy. But before their birth, we lost a child. The days following the miscarriage were difficult. Milada and I moved awkwardly at home. We spoke little. And we never created any ceremony to honor our lost child. Instead, we took up the work of trying to conceive again through modern medicine. In this poem, written fifteen years later, I try to capture the loss we felt at the time, and to memorialize the unborn.”
—Gregory Fraser
Gregory Fraser
