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In the reproductive endocrinologist’s
waiting room magazine I see a sunspot
photo, black-and-white speckled blob
like an ultrasound printout predicting
an aurora borealis: northern lights,
green illusion, heaven-flare, star-quilted
flashes on eyelid-prayer, insomnia-fare,
light-sigh, womb-curved pulse-traced flicker of sky.
What presence inside, beneath-under quilt?
Inscrutable pink-blue, sky-baby-to-be,
pixel-traced gray printed topo hope-spot.
Empty face, empty phrase, not asleep or awake,
forehead ball not hers or mine.
No ears. No hate. No hair. No voice. No scars.
A dot, a moment of hope. No heartbeat. No child.
I put down the magazine. We begin again.
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