I Named Her Nina

The radiologist left in a hurry,  
an ultrasound humming, the screen  
turned at an angle I couldn't see— 
my belly cold and sticky with gel. 
 
When the doctor pointed  
to the image explaining  
what went wrong, I caressed  
the baby I couldn't sustain.  
 
I lost a lot of blood that Monday  
at the Chilton Memorial. 
Back home, bent in two 
I rocked and cried.  
 
The next day a friend called  
before nine a.m. urging me to turn the TV on. 
On the screen, flight 175 
and the South Tower on fire. 
 
My husband came home late 
that night. His ashen hair  
smelled of burnt flesh.  
Nobody mentioned Nina.