CHARLOTTE'S PURPOSE

The Beautiful Before


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

Nevers & Withouts

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by Heather Carnaghan

My heart has lodged itself
deep in my stomach,

wreaking havoc on other vital organs.

My throat is full,
choked by words I cannot find
and a howl I cannot let escape.

Grief is clawing at my soul
A fierce and frightening beast
that haunts my dreams
and lurks in the shadows
of every waking moment.

Fear surrounds me,
filling  places it never touched before,
of returning to life
of mothering as a ghost,
of all the “nevers” and “withouts”.  



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3/21/2018

Cygnus XI

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by Heather Carnaghan

A hole so vast and so deep
that the dropped stone
never makes the telltale “thunk” as it collides with earth.


An emptiness, infinite like space.
expanding,
ever larger the longer it exists.

It sucks the air from my lungs
and swallows every possibility.

Into the blackness
go her lips and her eyes
her kisses and the things she would see

her tiny fingers
and all they might have held

her perfect feet
and all of the places
we should have gone together.


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3/21/2018

Corpse Color

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by Heather Carnaghan

The day you were born
still and silent
my heart
was shattered
into fragments so sharp
that they pierced
through my whole life
and opened wounds
that will never heal.

I held your tiny hand
and stroked your chubby cheeks.
they grew cold
as my own warmth seeped out of you
and the corpse color
crept over your perfect toes.


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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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  • 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 2020 >
      • This Year's Projects
      • This Year's Gear
      • This Year's Impact
    • 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