#1010 greyed expectations

my feet delivered me here

within arm's reach, on the bookstore shelf sits a

happy book with a happy pink cover with a happy new mother

with her 

smile and her

newborn baby

but happiness is relative to me

i have no relative to name, or to carry my name after me

tried twice but 

justice, two babies, and two fragments of my soul got

    miscarried

i lost two things that i

    never had

i'm becoming an expert on the first trimester

can i handle a third first trimester?

after the second in one year i 

gave god the digit between the 

 annularis and the secundus manus as a gesture

after the last first trimester

i tried to muster 

the love i need to be being human being

why did my feet deliver me to this aisle?

could they see what is stuck spinning in my brain every time they step, every poem, every day?

it takes all the love i have to

feel love for the shiny glossy glowing woman with her 

smile and her

newborn baby

the book educates, soothes fears, reduces tears

all noble goals

but where is my book?

for the adult who lost two babies, while they were still Maybe's

with its cover so unmarketable a 

wannabee-parent with two dead Almost's, unremarkable

direct my feet to that aisle

grief?

self-help?

miscellaneous?

tell my feet where my answers wait in print

tell my feet why the next time will be better

tell my feet why they shouldn't cry at condolences

tell my feet why they shouldn't feel defeat

tell my feet

tell my feet