My Stillborn Poem

I gave birth to a stillborn poem
not two weeks ago
and I hope you understand why I have trouble writing.
She was beautiful in the way that
anything that is yours is beautiful,
because it belonged to you
and possession counters logic, of course.
She had brown hair
the colour of autumn.
I grieve over her sometimes, still,
even though poems come and go,
for you see she tried to
mean something to me,
and although she bore the image of
an idea that I once had,
she did not carry that life
so I had to bury her under our files
and folders,
yellow and blue,
and there I came across
all the other stillborns I had buried too.
I realised in that moment although they were dead,
they were not gone or unloved,
they held the memories of a time long passed.
In one I saw anger and in five I saw hurt,
the products of my legacy all quieted
in this process of childbirth.
I sat down to think upon it
and a few tears went hence,
resurrection isn't only a theme for the Bible,
that maybe this time the tomb will be opened for me as well.

I want to write
to make you weep.
Not to make you sad, no,
but to make you weep
because you forgot what it was like
to feel something so beautiful as yourself.
I want you to cry as you realise
where you stand in the universe,
equal to the mountains and the oceans,
that you breathe in the same
dust that was breathed into the universe
at the very beginning
and is the very end,
for beauty has no beginning and end,
it has no constraint
for it is you,
and you are it.
I want you to weep upon this realisation.
I want to weep upon this realization.
I want to stand on the face of the moon
and kiss the cheek of that long lost man
and return to what I was made to do,
whatever that is,
and I hope that includes loving you.