Prose Still (Stillbirth)

[Hannah Capps]

The juice and mold from what I've hurt,
Squeezed and told "not to return."
Rip the fabric off my back.
Shake the cycle; watch it crack.
The rotting fruit stains what I lack.
-Rotting Fruit by: Kaleah Lee

Small grass growin’ in the cracks.
Nevr' knew how much I’d lack.

Comin’ up shrub n’ fishers,
Nevr' knew how much I’d miss er’.

Black n’ white,
Lackin’ light.

Her siblins’ morn,
“Small fry” unborn.

Burdn’ bleedin’
Her touch I’m needin’

In er’ arms, once my home,
Now embracin’ icy lone.

This piece was pulled out of my guts, tear-stained face and all. My grandmother's health is quickly declining. She can't hear very well, so we use a notepad to communicate. She can't see well and has trouble writing. Most of all I miss our 'talks'; she'd hear my thoughts and soak them in, and I could convey them to her with a fluency that's now stunted.
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