missed miscarriage
Last night in my dreams—
a man’s hands around my neck,
me, pleading with my daughter
to run away and save me,
but no one else was there.
****
Last year the cat left a bunny,
dark as spilled oil
and one blond foot,
dropped on the sheets between us.
Then he brought another,
smooth like honey,
black-tipped ears
hid underneath the couch.
Ears and feet and fuzzy butts
appeared in every room.
He found them—
the color of burnt august grass
between backed-in sedans
that need a jump every morning,
or the color of standing dead larch
behind rusted compressors for always-leaking tires,
skies without light pollution,
the two-toned frankenstein cars
of montana towns without sidewalks.
My cat brought them inside.
A friend told me:
they do that when you’re pregnant.
****
Weeks later, when he stopped,
I thought nothing of it.
The bunnies had grown too big,
wriggled from his grasp
before he could drag them in
and left him spitting fur off his tongue
the orange of a wildfire-smoked sky,
of octobers in this place,
leaves gathered around tires,
extra jackets.
Then I saw a small one hiding
behind the log for the trailer hitch,
tiny ears peeking around bark.
I saw it again the next day.
And the next.
Brand new, smaller than my hand.
And the ultrasound said
no heartbeat.
Liz Ann Young (she/her) lives on a small farm with dogs, cats, chickens, and some humans too, on land originally inhabited by the Haudenosaunee and Susquehannock peoples. She is working towards her PhD at Binghamton University and received her MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. She is the longstanding poetry editor of Atlas + Alice and her work has been published by Black Heart, Big Muddy, Tinderbox Poetry, and San Pedro River Review, among others.