The sono room is dressed in black:

crepe streamers, balloons easing out

their air, some floating down where Roy

can reach them, bounce them back up,

a festive-40 prank that shocks

you on the day we'll see baby two,

finally past the miscarriages

you bore, draining you slowly as

you stayed at work, taught your classes.

And now this. Roy asks, "Why is she

taking so many pictures, dad?

We already know it's a boy,

And saw his hands and feet and head."

And it's his head she's aiming for,

making you nauseous, peering so

long at that spot of fluid in

the brain, that dark reservoir,

that splash of ink that hasn't gone.