that night she dreams
that she has been cracked in half
and wakes up screaming.
she dreams that this child, it breaks
with her too, and she delivers
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.