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Not Staying In, Not Going Out by Margaret A. Robinson                                 

                                               

 

Due to rain and Claude’s touch of the flu, we have spent

the whole day wombed in our house.  The planet turns,

the sun sinks early.  Drops spatter on skylights and roof.

 

Last night in Manchester, England – a time zone five hours

ahead – our niece, after IVF, expelled a “yolk attachment.”

In the afternoon, she bled.  By midnight, forty minutes of

vomiting - she felt faint, her husband held her head.  When

the heaving stopped, they took a hot shower.  Something

depended.  She reached, pulled out life’s apparatus.  Tissue

and blood filled her hand, a two-month pregnancy lacking

a heartbeat.  Her husband had thought it would look small,

like a scrap of raw liver.  Oh my God, oh my God, he said.

 

They went to bed, rose to walk in the final hour of daylight.

Did I mention Manchester’s latitude, on Labrador’s stripe,

how short the days, how long the nights?  Our niece is feeling

much better, thanks, but sad - both of them sad but all right -

the rest of the family heavy with loss.  Though not hugely

 

sick, Claude stayed in pajamas.  Thanksgiving had passed,

we ate turkey bone soup and counted our blessings.  Plants

to water, the Sunday paper.  From a catalogue, we chose

holiday gifts.  On TV, pandas ate bamboo.  Three priests

sang “Ave Maria.”  Now, Claude is upstairs asleep.  Soon,

 

a new month starts.  People are shot in Mumbai, pirates take

hostages, soldiers die in Iraq.  You don’t need another sad

story, but I can’t stop writing this down.  On November’s last

night, 2008, an imperfect stranger was lost.  Rain pelted all day.

A childless couple huddled on a couch.  They did not go out.

 

 

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