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A poem about an abortion from the point of view of the fetus.


Submitted:Feb 12, 2014    Reads: 5    Comments: 1    Likes: 2   


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.





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