If you never got to watch as your child turned in response to their name,
If in defense of feeling powerless, you channel your energy into self-blame,

If rather than singing lullabies to your babe, instead you sing to an urn,
If you still have to write thank you notes for gifts you wish you could burn,

If the scar 7 layers deep across your middle attests to how you’ve been ripped open,
If you weren’t even afraid while they did it because you were too busy hoping,

If your child’s certificate of death arrived before even that of their birth,
If you spent the better part of a year growing a life that’s no longer on earth,

If you wonder awake at night about whether you’re punished for some forgotten sin,
If your greatest fear and deepest desire are one and the same: getting pregnant again,

If you cannot stand the sound of hearing other parents complain,
If you know how grateful they would be if they knew just one ounce of your pain,

If life bestowed your greatest gift then turned to cruelest thief,
If you had to decide what to do with their body before you were ever alone with your grief,

If you wonder if in the grand design, your heart and body were merely a pawn,
If your breasts cry tears of milk long after the baby they yearn to feed’s gone,

If you had a funeral in the time that your child would have been baptized,
If you cry for your baby all through the night when you wish you were hearing their cries,

If you say their name a million times to make up for a lifetime of it being spoken,
If you’ve but a few seconds before realization dawns each morning after you’ve woken,

If even in this darkest of nights, somehow your strength shines through,

To all the babyless mothers out there—you’re not alone,

and I see you.