The twinge came that afternoon.

With the spilled blood of the winter sun

came a trickle, then a torrent, blood gushing 

warm and wet between her legs.

Finally there was the sickening, faint moment

when the clump appeared: sliding ooze,

a tadpole encased in snotty stuff 

and more blood, falling with a loud plop

into the commode.

The doctor told her to collect the specimen.

Even so young, barely human, would need 

examination. What could have caused the poor thing

to collide headlong with fate? She needed to fish it out, 

but how? Her dyeing gloves had been used up

with her last root job. Certainly bare hands were out.

She couldn't bear to touch the blood,

the gobs of blood that raised the level of the water

nearly to the brim - at least, that's what it looked like  -

and it was a toilet, for crying out loud,

she couldn't put her bare hand in a toilet!

The scoop sat nearby. It only took a minute

to find a jar; and empty 

of all emotion, or treacherous memory

of being almost a mother, she took the handle;

traveling through time to when, 

in the third grade, she found the goldfish floating

belly-up in its bowl. How,

dispassionately, she scooped out the orange fish

and bore it to the bathroom.