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The Beautiful Before


Poetry for when the "right words" don't form sentences
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3/21/2018

7:23

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by Heather Carnaghan

The silence of stillbirth
doesn’t tiptoe in
or creep quietly,

camouflaged,
              considerate.

It roars
and wails

and fills the space
stealthily,
         greedily,

so there is no air left to breathe.


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3/21/2018

27th Hour

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by Heather Carnaghan

Crumpled tissues sit bedside,
wet with twenty seven hours of sweat
and tears so salty they’ve left crystalline tracks on my cheeks

The glasses I’d never before removed for fear of missing a moment
are strewn, one leg splayed
their lenses fogged with bloody fingerprints
and organic remnants of the moment I wished I had been blind to.   


I scan the room, wild eyed,
trying to find the source

of that horrible noise.


It assaults my ears and pastes a look of horror on my husbands ragged face.

A wail
so deep and terrible that
it hails from a primitive part of the psyche
that has no words for this pain.


The audience stands,
hesitantly at first,
wringing their hands
and covering their mouths
as they realize what I am searching for.



The sorrowful ovation
faces me
and at last

the source is clear.

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3/21/2018

Fox

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by Heather Carnaghan

My car flew dangerously around the bend
as I fled my cookie cutter neighborhood
where wildlife
has been neatly replaced by concrete

and a community pool.

She dove into the road,
as unexpected as my frenzied midnight journey.
Tires screeched, tattooing the fresh tar,
but she sat, still and stoic,
staring with holographic eyes,

unafraid.  

I stared back,
distractedly thinking
how unlike a real fox
the toys I’d bought for Charlotte were.



She was beautiful,
fiercely so,
like loving her might rip the heart
right out of your chest.
Her fiery tail flicked impatiently
as she bored with our encounter
and let me pass.   


I didn’t recognize the gift that she left me:
a permanent symbol of a life

that wouldn’t last.


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3/21/2018

3am

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by Heather Carnaghan

She stopped kicking.

Just like that
her elbows and knees
paused their nine month

assault on my organs.

I drank honey
to coax her to dance
and ice water,
               was that a shiver...?

My swollen belly
was leaden,
heavy with the death
my heart

made me blind
to see.


I drove on
with hope,
a phone,

and three car seats
in the back seat
of my tiny Hyundai Accent.



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3/21/2018

South

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by Heather Carnaghan

“It’s just a heartbeat scan”
I told him

and my words turned his car around.
They echoed through the next two months

and left him forever wondering
if her heart would still be beating
if he’d continued
south on 95.


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3/21/2018

BinDer

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by Heather Carnaghan

Love is a strong word
for a binder
but this binder was a work of art
a type A educator’s
titillating dream.

Deliciously color coded,
it held coveted secrets to my

daily doings
learned over thirteen years
of attendance
and parent conferences,
of messy inquiry
and messier class pets.



That binder held in it
the blueprint

for a substitute,
that stranger to my surrogate children,
to assume my teacher identity
fully and competently
for an entire quarter,
(A lifetime to an 8th grader).
It was just enough time

for me to grow
a wriggling newborn into

a rolling three month old.

I was ready for her.






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3/21/2018

Charlotte

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by Heather Carnaghan

I like Lucy.    
                                                                                    Charlie Brown’s friend, is it?

They’re not friends,
But anyway. It’s short
like Jack and Sam’s.


                                                                                        Biff is short.  We’re not naming her
                                                                                        Biff.


Aoife?
It’s Irish like you
and smooth like Kerrygold.
                                
                                                                                            “Ee-fah”?

                                                                                             That’s a life sentence,
                                                                                             not a name. No one can say Aoife.  


Amelia is…

                                                                                               ...the air hostess?

The pilot, you dolt!    
A strong namesake.


                                                                                                   A Doctor Who companion, really.
                                                                                                   What else is on that list?

Charlotte.

                                                                                                       C-h-a-r-l-o-t-t-e ?

Yeah. Charlotte.
Jack, Sam, and Charlotte.




Well?


                                                                                                             Charlotte.


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3/21/2018

Lovesong

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by Heather Carnaghan

Some women
loath the girth
of their newly pregnant bodies.

Not me.

I loved my curves.
Full and round,
I strutted, head high,
in dresses so tight

that they hugged
my hips
and showed your kicks.


Those kicks were our secret,
you hid most from daddy,
but I knew you through them.
The tiny elbows in my ribcage
were a constant love song
that grew stronger

over our nine month romance.

The rhythms and harmonies,
those eager heartbeats
and hiccups,
sang of firsts steps and parades,
of treasure hunts and birthday cakes.  



When the scan
turned you from it
to a she
the key changed somehow.

Our song was of tea parties and scraped knees,
of adventures and girl scouts.
A sweet refrain played in my head
of touching my daughter’s

confidently clothed belly,
swollen with a lovesong of her own.


​

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3/21/2018

Sunglasses

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Heather Carnaghan
​

I smile
at the newborn’s first coos

and the delicious softness
of her peach fuzz hair against my cheek.
I am drunk on the smell 
of sweet, sour milk 
and so much life to live.

Your hair was fine.

A single lock was spared by the nurses 
before your perfect puckered mouth
and round cheeks
were turned to ash.
My consolation prize

was taped to ugly paper 
with an uninspired border
that was haphazardly off-center.

Why does she get a lifetime 
of smoothing sleep-dampened hair
and frilly bows
but I am left with 37 taped strands 
and a tear-stained box of cinders?

I didn’t spill a single tear 
on her pink and wriggling infant.

I saved them all for the desperate ride home
camouflaging jagged, jealous thoughts
and raw eyes behind unnecessary sunglasses.
​

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3/21/2018

Weathering Winter

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Heather Carnaghan

These woods
are full of death
of fallen oaks

and ungrown seeds,
those miscarriages of the earth.

Decaying trunks
one hundred rings thick
are strewn across the mossy floor.

I sit on ancestors
and wonder how many

have fallen before.

Does the Earth mourn
the crushed sapling
or the masticated seed?


Does her molten core
break like mine
when blight strikes
the new growth?


Could my single tear 
be the definitive drop
a thirsty leaf
needs to weather the desolate winter?

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  • Home
  • Our Story
    • Charlotte's Journey
  • Blog
    • Poetry
  • Grief Resources
    • For the Mother
    • For the Father/Partner
    • For the sibling
    • For the Grandparent
    • For Caregivers & Medical Staff
    • How to support a grieving friend
    • Book Club
  • Memorial Planning
    • Components
    • Readings
    • Music
    • Program Templates
    • Other Ways to Remember your baby
    • Financial Assistance
  • Weekend of Kindness
    • Weekend of Kindness 2022
    • PROJECTS WE'RE PROUD OF
    • JOIN THE KINDNESS CREW
    • A FEW KIND IDEAS
  • Wrapped in Love Project
    • Project Wish List
    • Resources for Sewists
    • Project Gallery
    • Donate a Dress
    • Volunteer to Sew