The effacement of a fallacy, a gaping
flesh wound on the tendon that sleeps
stretched across the womb. The sweet
boneless ether, holding the fetus hostage
the placental membrane like a vague umbrella.
The hands, not fleshy as I had been told
fisting deep into mother's walls. The creep
of latex across my ankles, dragging me out
like strange shrapnel.
This is impossible. It's not my time.
The room is tight and narrow. The air
soft with the faintness of aerosol. Lavender
and lilies. Summer flowers. The abortionist has
no hands. He is cockeyed and looking at me.
his mouth pressed and covered with white,
holding his breath he hopes I won't cry.