Symphony, Numbered Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

There lies in each of us a conch-shell song unheard,
a moment of beginning unfurling,
a longing to exist beyond ourselves,
a musical transcendence beyond
the first notes and last notes of time
that envelops our entire being—
until a miscarriage is recorded,
as an ectopic pregnancy,
and the medical verdict is bleak,
when monitoring hormone levels safely back to zero
becomes your only new existence.

Notes that, if not played correctly,
or slightly off-key, vortex
into a cataclysmic outpouring
no consoling confidence can fix.

The tide of a woman's body
washes in and washes out,
one day never to return
a sailcloth cut from the same tired flesh.
Each hope, a battle enduring ultimate defeat,
ever more painful than the last—
hearing each song breaking like a meadow lark
into broken glass, cutting deeper
than the last.

Pinged in a symphony, numbered,
that cannot be recycled—
a note on which the music must end,
hand-knitted cardigans, folded,
for a newborn never born.