The skull wasn’t there.
We listened
 
to the heartbeat.
Would our child
 
live? Air tinted
 
gray, I moved
closer, searched the screen
 
for the halo
of bone,
 
touched glass
 
and stroked
our bad luck,
 
my finger leaving
its smudge
 
on the oval glow,
 
delicate as a grape.
The head would
 
never form.
Grace stared
 
at the brightness
 
then closed her eyes,
the light flickered
 
on our hands.
This second child. Never.
 
The dark
 
washed in,
heavy as water.
 
Did our baby know pain?
Inside tiny feet
 
kicking, small hands
 
open, fingers
reached out. Drift
 
of white static,
this broken globe
 
we had made.