adv. Once too often.
—Ambrose Bierce
For a second time this year
our marriage bed becomes
a collage of child loss
sea of rectangular pads
dotted in carmine-colored
spots that start small
as a copperhead’s bite
then bloom, parachute
into crimson ocean. I dive
in therapy through the village
of our buried griefs
bemoan the bony hopes
stacked like worm-rotted
lumber in a faithless yard
where women in my family
have for three centuries now
felt the call for children
gotten funerals in return.