Jasper Number 10 Reads Poem

After the Lost Baby

My mother young, her deep husky voice
fading from the high bed as she turns
her face from mine, the house shifting
with prayers — God forgive — with whispers —
no, a miscarriage. A word
that chills. I picture
a small carriage, an infant, a sister
rolling downhill on wheels
I run behind.  For days
my grandmother and aunt pass
each other on the stairs —
steam drifting from broth — trays
of warm milk-toast carried
back down cold.

by Diana Pinckney 

Diana Pinckney lives in Charlotte, N.C.  She grew up in Columbia and attended USC. Her work has appeared in Green Mountains Review, Cave Wall, Tar River Poetry and other publications. She is the 2012 Winner of Atlanta Review’s International Poetry Prize. A five time Pushcart nominee, she has 4 collections of poetry: Fishing With Tall Women, White Linen, Alchemy, and Green Daughters.

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