Published on Academy of American Poets (https://poets.org)


Stillbirth

On a platform, I heard someone call out your name:
No, Laetitia, no.
It wasn’t my train—the doors were closing,
but I rushed in, searching for your face.

But no Laetitia. No.
No one in that car could have been you,
but I rushed in, searching for your face:
no longer an infant. A woman now, blond, thirty-two.

No one in that car could have been you.
Laetitia-Marie was the name I had chosen.
No longer an infant. A woman now, blond, thirty-two:
I sometimes go months without remembering you.

Laetitia-Marie was the name I had chosen:
I was told not to look. Not to get attached—
I sometimes go months without remembering you.
Some griefs bless us that way, not asking much space.

I was told not to look. Not to get attached.
It wasn’t my train—the doors were closing.
Some griefs bless us that way, not asking much space.
On a platform, I heard someone calling your name.

Credit


From A New Hunger by Laure-Anne Bosselaar. Copyright © 2007 by Laure-Anne Bosselaar. Reprinted with permission of Ausable Press.

Author


Laure-Anne Bosselaar

Laure-Anne Bosselaar is the author of A New Hunger (Ausable Press, 2007), and Small Gods of Grief (BOA Editions, 2001); which won the Isabella Gardner Prize for Poetry; and The Hour Between Dog and Wolf (BOA Editions, 1997).

Date Published: 2007-01-01

Source URL: https://poets.org/poem/stillbirth