She takes off her gown
as he heads to the loo.
She’s sneaking out of that
fluorescently imprisoning room. 

But doesn’t take their car keys
Because she knows he knows
She’s leaving 
without him,
and he knows that she knows 
he’ll beat her
home this way
to put away
any of the leftover décor 
from celebrating the nights before. 

So, she waits outside
underneath that pictograph of 
public transportation and
waits for
the wheels to squeak
and the air in the breaks to release
that sound that shocks her back
to that crystal, blurry memory
of waiting early in the morning
for a day in Magic Kingdom 
with flutters in her heart knowing
that with Mickey and Minnie he’d be proposing
and she could really begin planning
on having kids around her playing.  

She drifts to a seat opposite a man 
who is in no hurry to move when the elderly women
with her oak and metal cane limps past
(taking a few seconds longer to glare
at the insolence of the younger generation).
And for a moment she forgets and lets
her hands glide across the medical tape
that covers the scarring tissue
and exits a momentary trance. 

Seven multiples of 30 or 31 
exchanges of the moon for sun 
waiting, tossing their whole  
life upon that spot in her abdomen 
Where her hand now sits and where it used  
to feel a kick. 

The motion of the bus transcends
the instances of its begging for  
her neurological impulses and from her 
claws out questions one day she could  
dream would only be in her nightmares again. 

Stillborn and a shorter infecundability 
biologically 
But she whimpers knowing the statistics – 

What statistics? When will her pain 
stand sufficient for convergence.