that night she dreams 
that she has been cracked in half
like ice
and wakes up screaming.
she dreams that this child, it breaks 
with her too, and she delivers
glass fragments
into a wet pink blanket that weighs
six pounds, four ounces
and they cradle this pool of broken blood
then throw it away.
an empty basket, a tag with
no name, wind chimes tinkling above
a cradle with an undone blanket, rolls of
undeveloped film that’ll pulse before 
your eyes, pictures of darkness, no smiles

but this opaque curve of her stomach, it is still there. 

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in the wake of light, your words bring me more(please, do leave your fingerprints behind, so I may relish the image of our hands after you go.)