THE PRICE OF YOUTH

Illustrated by Chisom Onyishi

Blood clots the size of a baby's fist

stain the carpet, block the toilets

and color the bedsheets red.

The room smells of old food or dead fish

as you lay curled like a fetus.

A glass of warm water is said to calm the womb

or a hot water bottle pressed against your stomach.

But it’s not until that cream white drop,

half the size of your thumb

slides down your naked thigh

and onto the marble floor,

that you are suddenly sure

your child is dead

and you're free to go on living.