You wouldn’t deliver, just stay an unborn love began and for it bled out in 2011
You would be six now, a number meaning nothing to you, never having learned to count
I never thought you completely unplanned, nor regret the outcome,
that I like to imagine your ghost haunts behind that curtain of tubes, dermis,
speaking to the occasional doctor stethoscope
I kept a few things from the appointment: a jean pocket
stained in ink seeped from the ballpoint used on clinic patient forms
(you were gone by the time I found it bleeding in my coat pocket)
the recurring charm on a gift bracelet,
post-operation gift from the one you would call father:
silver hanging prisms
each prong a likeness of possible qualities I denied you
bound to my real flesh.
The skin groves left once removed is your carbon.