We have the test results – a female voice
announces through the holes by my ear

I watch the ceiling light shatter on the surface
of my tea into shards of disconnected brightness

I read somewhere that babies can see in the womb
through their blurry eyes – I squint at the cup

and imagine you seeing waves of sun,
shadows and light from your watery orb

There is an abnormality – she persists, and my ear
tries to hear, I press my overextended belly against

the cold porcelain sink – the phone cord stretching
out, uncoiling from the wall to my fist – I wonder,

can you sense fear through the cord
that tethers your life to mine

It is a rare chromosome deletion – she adds,
as if discussing a uniquely minted coin

I feel the damp from the porcelain seeping through
my blouse, watch an ant slip in a drop of water –

a black exclamation point in a translucent period –
it is drowning in the puddle pooling around the silver rim

a stranger’s voice speaks through my mouth,
what does this mean – it asks

the answer comes encrypted: Milestones rolling over
small cranium or enlarged head in cases low set ears
syndactyly of toes and fingers impossible to say for sure

we arrange a meeting to decode the indecipherable –
I return the phone to its cradle

I return to my tea pouring it down the drain
knowing we can no longer trust it’s taste

# # #

Lianne Kamp lives in the Boston area. Her work has appeared in a number of literary journals and online publications including Poetry Quarterly, Tuck Magazine, Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge, Poets Reading the News, Scarlet Leaf Review, Haiku Journal, Three Line Poetry, and elsewhere.

Photo: Rubén Bagüés