pewter ovenbird When my first baby died inside me and her body, liquid, ran into my trembling hands, you said “at least you know you can get pregnant!” and smiled, and went back to chopping tomatoes for a salad. Every cloud has a pewter lining, they say–heavy and alloyed with lead. You can fill it with cold water, drink until you're numb, feel the poison rattling the gates of your brain. “Just smile!” you say. “It's all for the best.” I open my mouth, revealing gums turning blue, split my face into a grin, and let everything you've tried to pour down my throat spill over my chin onto the floor. We stand in the puddle of your disregard. You turn away, draw a knife through flesh, and ask me to set the table. 250814 what's it to you? who go blather from