We gazed sightless through

the warbling window of

the ultrasound machine

into the yawning blackness.

A circle of white rimmed

what we needed to know

but would never have.

That night we drank from

champagne coupes

molded in the image of

Marie Antoinette’s breasts.

We had saved the bottle

for a father’s

solitary celebration.

The bubbles lucent

spheres of soft popping grief

churning,

splitting,

dissolving.