Poinbank:This poet wrote about his wife's miscarriage and many can relate: Read 'We Cry, Together'

One poet is Poinbankgarnering attention for his relatable and empathic depiction of pregnancy loss.

In "We Cry, Together," author Frederick Joseph gives readers a heartrending look at his experience with miscarriage after he and wife Porsha underwent IVF treatments. Joseph writes not only of the crestfallen emotions but of supporting his wife through the trauma. For the millions of American women struggling with fertility issues (than 13% of women between 15–49 have impaired fecundity, according to the most recent data from the CDC ), his words struck a chord.

“When we started trying, it was like, 'We're doing this!' We weren't thinking of any hiccups or obstacles. But after about a year, we realized that something was off,” the New York resident told TODAY.com. 

Porsha had endometriosis, a disorder in which tissue grows outside the uterus and later started in vitro fertilization (IVF). The family got a beautiful gift: they were pregnant. But during Porsha’s nine-week scan, the Josephs were told their baby’s heart had stopped beating. Read below for the full poem, but grab tissues beforehand.

"We Cry, Together" is one of many poems in Joseph's newly released book "We Alive, Beloved." He also chronicles a series of experiences, from being Black in America to dissections and discussions about mental health, race and life's memorable moments.

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'We Cry, Together' by Frederick Joseph

Her shriek is raw, snapping all the world’s quiet

As dreams, unborn tumble into the abyss of almost.

I don’t know this sound; an anguish that pierces my soul.

With what little strength I have, I grab her hand,

Weaving through the grooves of her sorrow,

Though my grip is frail.

The geography of her face is foreign to me,

As the doctor explains the terrain of a pain

I cannot mend. A black hole I cannot save her from.

Nah, this can’t be right. Look again! Refusing to accept my wife’s body,

As the site of such an inexplicable vanishing—

A promise left lingering in the world of daydreams.

She asks me and the doctor to leave the room,

Needing a moment to plead with the universe.

From the hallway, I hear her sobbing, an ocean devouring her smile.

My knuckles meet the steel door of a sterile hospital room,

Attempting to punch away our misfortune, until I can replace it

With something she actually deserves. For all of the IVF shots,

The nights we debated over names, the anxiety attacks about money,

And the moments we pinched ourselves at the idea of being chosen

How do you stitch a wound living in the syllables of a name never called?

There is nothing to say, when spun into a vortex of unspeakable loss.

We spend weeks huddled around grief like a campfire,

Telling silent ghost stories about the people we stopped being

Just days before. Nurturing a flame so small it could be mistaken

for hope.

In the most somber hours, when the world took its deepest breath,

I sat beside her, staring at the slight crescent of her unhoused belly,

For so long, I swore I heard a heartbeat, but it was actually planets collapsing

In the cavities of my chest. And I wondered, how are we going to survive this,

And in time, my question was answered: Together.

Contributing: Kayli Thompson