we were walking along the avenue parkway
when you said "I think I'm pregnant."
"I'm a good pretender," i said, "and an actor too."
And you're baby bump fell out of you
and we cried as it fell along the curbside.
Our parents and friends held a wake for the dead
the one in your stomach, in your uterine wall.
we wore long socks and black dress clothes
we stood in silence and watched our toes grow,
and everyone else, they all grieved for us.
I remember how you said you "cant do this"
and how your silences were taking up the room of your words.
If your little baby boy had fallen out a little bit earlier,
you would be fine with this absence of life,
but when he fell out of you, he hit the curb and died.
But you didn't even cry.
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