By Rachel Levy

                                                                         will it come out in threads and clumps   or in a cookie-cutter tadpole shape perfectly curvilineal and convexed  just like the pictures enlarged on the examination room wall     like a miniature edamame bean smooth soft and furry   in fits and starts eruptive tidal waves sprinkle rain gush ooze stream tennis balls and small rodents, masses and clots the shape of junkyard artifacts find their way out      teetering near the edge my eyes scan the abyss for a glimpse of what might have been but I can't tell one from another      drenched in semi-startling anguish wondering which was the failed fusion     through the diamonds of a chain link fence visually rummaging through the refugees in their tattered clothes    I am reluctant each time I depress the handle   flash conceptualizing eulogies apprehensive of having shown too little reverence respect contrition and penitence    what shall I call it a baby an embryo a fetus a corpse a freakish mass of cells a blob a genetically mutated monster that was not meant to be what kind of mother am I to name it like that     I just want to know so I can say goodbye.