Backstreet cafes with a crumpled envelope in hand
25 weeks and sweating at the thought,
Shrinking back to hair in face and darkened corners,
Clothes clinging to your skin in greasy clumps of sweat;
Your stomach, hear it gurgle, feel it move,
Feel it perceptibly swell beneath your fingertips,
As you close your eyes, breath in and out
Out and in,
Close your eyes, in silent prayer it’s not too late,
To a God you fear is soon to hang you out to dry.
A wild mesh of panicked retreats and shifty eyes
Hunching over, false offence, and cheeks are turned,
Rattle off another pack of lies
And back away, lock the bathroom door with trembling hands.
Another box of chips as your disguise
Chasing growing stomach with your thighs
Fat tears that roll down chubby cheeks and drip to baggy clothes,
Such a pretty child,
Such a pretty child,
Shame she had to go to seed so soon,
They roll their eyes, sigh and raise their eyebrows
Turn away a fraction of a second after you.
But still you sit
Legs sticking to the plastic of a seat you fear to leave,
Yet leave in fear you do, with the
anorak which housed the man who turned his face away and took your hand.
Took your hand and led you out into his car.
The chips you leave congealing on the table,
Drowning in the pools of their own fat,
And how you can relate.
The sleeve takes the envelope and passes to the man,
the little money you could scrape into the fund for life,
or death as it would seem,
He counts it out and stows away your last escape,
and now let it be known that there's no go back for you.
You drive and in despair,
watch the monochrome misfit of a world
flash you by.
A crunch of gears, and a backstreet alley,
You blink in candid confusion,
‘til a shove in the spine
sends you sprawling to the pavement,
with a gasp and taste of blood upon the lips.
A needle and elongated knife lie dull upon the gravel
Amongst the flecks of green and white of late night drunken fights.
He rolls you over, lifts your dress and sets to work
You want to scream, scream and run. until you can feel safe.
But the moneys gone, and you know he won’t stop now
You entered into this with that very first phone call
Drunk on tears and fingers shaking, the time the date, the place,
And here you are.
Lying on your back in the gravel, breathing in the fumes of a thousand car exhausts,
And the stench of a system that let you know to late
What you had done.
You dig your fingers to the ground and wheeze in and out a cry
You smell before you see,
The blood that pools around your legs,
The slimy mass he flings beside your face,
He stands and leaves you lying there,
Bloodied, and crying silent with the pain.
You hear an engine, and you know you are alone,
Save for he child you paid to have him kill,
In blind delusion, a week to late, a week
25 weeks and sweating and the thought
Of what you have just done,
Bathed in the blood of two, not one
A pain that will not cease
And cradled in your arms
Your one night stand in flesh and blood,
You struggle to your feet,
Bleed and cry the long way home.
Author notes
to late for leagal abortion, the only option is illegal, dark alleys with a money motivated 'doctor'
make abostion illegal, and this will be the norm
A contest entry
- Abortion: Anything Goes by SignifyingNothing.
425 points, ended November 18, 2007, 38 entries
Silver trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 6 of 6
-
The imagery in this is just stunning. It literally took my breath away. I think this is an incredible write for a poet as young as you are.
Now to its message:
I cannot condone abortion at 25 weeks, when the baby will survive most of the time if born if given simple medical care. In fact, it is safer at this stage for a woman to give birth than for her to have an abortion.
At 25 weeks, the fetal skull is too calcified and hard to crush easily and the baby is too large and difficult to dismember by D&E. (see http://www.clinicquotes.com/dande.htm for a doctor describing this type of abortion)
So the best way to do an abortion at this age is by induction- inject Dioxen (or another poison) into the baby's heart to kill her, then induce labor to deliver a dead baby. Why not induce labor to deliver a live baby instead? That would save the mother the risk of having a powerful poison injected into her which could kill her if it enters her bloodstream. So is having a dead baby worth that risk, or can the baby simply be delivered, saved, and put up for adoption? Should an abortion assure an empty womb or must it absolutely insure a dead baby, even after viability?
Well, that is my take on it anyway.
Very well done poem, and thank you for letting me read it. You are going to grow into one powerhouse of a writer.
-
Wow. This was intense
you wrote so vividly, but in a way that was effective and really broadens the view for the reader. It's left me thinking and I loved the multiple metaphors relating to abortion and just overall how you related it to other ideas or practices. Amazing write. well done -
You're only 16? You already have a powerful voice.
Whether anti or pro choice, one cannot help but be affected by the torment you've described.
One stanza seems a bit over done:
You blink in candid confusion,
‘til a fist into the spine
sends you sprawling to the pavement,
with a gasp and taste of blood upon the lips.
It's the fist into the spine thing. A bit over the top for me.
The phrase "set to work" I think should be "sets to work."
"Drunk on tears" is good -- actually many good images in this.
-
ohh goshh..
this is powerful.
xx
-
A PROPHETIC WRITE!!!!
Your words of reality touch home here.
One never knows if abortion is right or wrong but with consquences like this how can one say it is wrong.
-
-
thank you very much puppydog, for your kind words on my piece.
they are much appreciated
-
Adding your comment:
1 - 6 of 6
