The Miscarriage

I'm not thinking about Jesus.
I'm not thinking about the woman
at work who has cancer. And I'm
not thinking about you. I'm
thinking about hair and cataloguing
the ways it curls or relaxes or
lies flaccid or makes spiders crawling up a belly.
I'm not thinking about global warming.
I'm not thinking about Africa
and how it's becoming an empty continent.
And I'm not thinking about you.
I'm thinking about skin and the way
the pores speckle the body
and how the skin wrinkles at the junctures
and apertures. I'm not thinking about AIDS,
STDs, crystal meth. I'm not thinking about
suicides, carvers, huffers, valium addicts.
And I'm not thinking about you.
I'm thinking about feet and the arches
and the stair step
toes. I take a finger
and separate them and watch
the skin crease and watch the hairs and pores
ride the skin and I think about the joints and movements
and the ache in the toe
almost torn off once.
That's toe could be you, but I'm
not thinking about you. I'm thinking about the ache.
Those could be your origami skin folds and your tiny
dash hairs, dash dash dash dot
dot. But I am not
thinking about you.
I'm thinking about the ache.

Copyright Louise Robertson