Angie M. Yingst is a stay-at-home mother with one daughter. Her second daughter, Lucia Paz, was stillborn at 38 weeks. Her poems have been published in several print and online publications, including Mothering Magazine, In the Rearview, and Liquid Love. Her latest poem “I am. Still.” will be published in the October edition of Literary Mama. Angie maintains a blog about mothering and grief called Still life with Circles.
Anti-Prayer
To Mary,
With clutched hands, we pray.
No matter how much this doesn’t make sense to us.
Help us not call her an angel.
Help us not play pretend.
Help us not hang pictures of old men in robes to soothe our babyloss.
Help us not imagine she causes mischief about the house.
Help us not ask our children leading questions about their imaginary friends.
Help us not pretend she is the wind making our hair stand on end.
Help us not believe she opens the doors of our house.
Help us not see omens in normal occurrences.
Help us not swear she turned the daffodils white this year.
Help us not strain to overhear whispers when our daughter plays.
Help us not hear the blackbirds screaming “too soon”.
Help us not attribute our absentmindedness to something supernatural.
Help us not become too attached to the candle we light for her.
Help us not make ghosts responsible for our fertility.
Help us not imagine ourselves part of a Greek tragedy.
Help us not forget that she is dead.
Most blessed mother,
Help us not do to her what they have done to your son.
Amen.
Winter Solstice
It is the shortest day of the year.
Or the longest night.
(Is the glass half empty or half full? Or is the glass just not the right size?)
She died today.
This day. A day wrought with symbolism.
Why does my life have to read like a high-school-English novel?
Symbols for everything, nothing as it seems, lessons learned by everyone.
The night is day, and St. Lucy stands with two eyes on her tray,
Looking over my family as we huddle around a small bundle
On someone else’s bed,
Soaking someone else’s sheets with our tears,
Staining someone else’s floor with blood.
It is the longest night of the year
Or the shortest day.
(Our glass is transparent. You can make it whatever liquid you like.)
She died simply.
In the time between day and night, night and day,
A dusk that never shed a beautiful light.
That is now eternally dark.
Solstice is magic, I said once.
It is the darkest day of the darkest year.
Solstice means a beginning and an ending.
Tomorrow will be lighter.
The next day, more so, but does the sun really matter anymore?
When we don’t sleep and are mired in darkness,
this is the longest day of the year.
(Our glass is broken. The floor is sticky from my carelessness.)
She is dead and born together in the same moment.
Her first day was her first night.
Not being able to tell the difference, she just continued sleeping.
Like some little, perfect Rip Van Winkle, who was forgotten under a tree.
I am not a storyteller this time. I am a mother.
I am not a mother this time. I am a truth teller.
I am not a truth teller this time. I am a soothsayer.
I am not a soothsayer this time. Or a fortune teller with a cracked crystal ball.
Solstice is a curse. I said today.