Apostrophe

One more child lies silent in my
wife’s womb, no pulse, no moving

limbs, nothing left to say, as once
again your milligrams pull

down my eyelids — damming
the salty river of my needs.

I was sure the muscles of
my heart were strong enough to

support us all. But the roulette
wheel came up double zero,

and there you lay — a withered fruit
on the sonogram screen,

unsprouted. My teeth clacked when
standing just outside the door

someone asked “How ya doin?”
No sound passed my lips, as

the steady rain began to fall
on my grey-streaked, chestnut hair,

then my shirt, hat forgotten,
still grasped in my taut, right hand.

Gary D. Grossman
Lyrical Years, 2023, Kelsay Press,
Nominated for the 2023 Pushcarts.