A sonogram:
Donatella Quinn

In her uterus there is a room:
crimson walls crudely vandalized
by lead laden little hands,
stark streaks of white silently
clawing for release.
If you look closely you can see
an imprint of a small person,
curled into a ball, on the dirty
tile floor. Like a melted citizen
of Hiroshima, whose only trace
of existence is a shadow made
of human mire stretched across
concrete, alone like an escapee
running from Peter Pan