Miscarriage Ritual with Friends: Reading Poems at the Mikveh

Background: When I miscarried in 2002, I wrote four poems to express my experience. I wish there had a been a ritual and community for handling it. The poems below are designed to be read by female friends surrounding the person who has miscarried just before she immerses in the mikveh.

Sarah

November 16, 2002

I know why Sarah laughed

She laughed

because she had

given up

So many miscarriages

Decades worth

Bleeding and bleeding

and no life

Disappointment, pain

sadness, aloneness

She was a leader

who hid her pain

because they only wanted

to know of her strength

and joy

Here I am

descendant of Sarah

because in the end

she did birth a child

Here I am

crying

for the unimaginable

intensity of her suffering

and

for mine too

I’m tired and wound up

And I’m looking for some peace

Unpregnant
November 19, 2002

I know why Sarah laughed

Sarah laughed because she had given up

Cycle after cycle

Moon after moon

Blood after blood

flowing disappointment

I know why I cried

I cried because

I hadn’t given up

A hatzi kaddish for

half a dream

a quarter hope

bled and gone

Miscarriage

November 21, 2002

I should have spent today in a red tent

with my friends

Someone should have stroked my hair

And someone should have sung to me

And someone should have reminded me

of Sarah and

of Rachel

Someone should have placed

my head on her lap

and someone should have said

I know,

it was me last month,

remember?

And someone should have whispered

you’ll survive

and someone should have promised

it will

get better

And someone should have hollered at

G-d for me

And someone should have forgiven G-d

with me

And someone should have brought my

daughter in to hold

for a moment

And when this is over

someone ought to put

her fingers through my fingers

and lift me up

and lead me

out of this tent

to the waters

the healing waters

seven steps

to renewal.

A Limb

March 17, 2003

A limb

I always say

You feel pain

Not because a life

was taken,

an embryo

isn’t a life.

Rather, said the rabbis,

this loss is akin

to losing a limb.

But I forgot

to tell me.

A piece of me

has been taken

a part of me

is lost

smaller than my smallest toe

insignificant as my nail

tiny

unsustainable

And yet a piece of me

and apart from me

a part of self of body

and certainly of mind and

hope

is gone.

Let’s say it plainly

The plans were much

greater than the

collection of cells.

Both are now gone.

Miscarriage Ritual with Friends: Reading Poems at the Mikveh

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