Baby loss poetry (Archives)

Baby loss poetry

Out-of-focus close-up of a glass lamp (personal photo)

Fuck June.

Fuck June. Fuck loss. Fuck innocence. Fuck memories of a life when I was blissfully expecting the loss I had no way of expecting. Fuck.

Closeup of Miranda holding Adrian's Elephant. Miranda is wearing a pink dress and tan floppy hat (personal photo)

There is nothing wrong with ‘Dwelling’

Our grief-averse culture seems to rush us to the finish line; that place where things are just happy, and our loved ones are remembered only with smiles and upbeat feelings—But honestly, there is power in dwelling. Power I am happy to claim.

You're an absence I carry

You’re an absence I carry

Moving after my son’s death and it’s hard—although people here know he existed, he’s still an abstract concept to them, only “real” to me.⁠

Original Statement: Still Grieving? Still dead. Still a parent. Rewritten statement: Always grieving. Always dead. ALWAYS a parent.


STILL grieving? Yes, I am still grieving.⁠⁠ I am still grieving, because the work of grief is never done.⁠ ⁠I am still grieving, because I put into my grief what I cannot put into life with my son.⁠ ⁠I am still grieving, because he is STILL, and will always, be dead.⁠..

Motherhood comes in so many forms


I am the mother whose body swelled with pregnancy.
I am the mother who dreamed and wanted and planned.
I am the mother who left my heart in a small and curtained alcove room.
I am the mother who screamed and cried and begged.

The Worst Part of Child Loss | Miranda holding Adrian's photo in the mountains of Kaua'i (Luna Kai Photography)

The Worst Part

Hearing the news was definitely the worst part. “There is no heartbeat.” It broke me. I fell. And the “worst” pieces just kept building.

Wildflowers and Adrian's Elephant

On Sunlight and Strength

I am a weed. They say I am strong, but I do not aim to be so. I don’t aim to be anything. I’m just here.

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