Abortion

The decision was made quite simply,
In a simple waiting room,
The obligatory magazines lounging on the table,
And floral patterns melting into the light blue wallpaper.
The operation was neat and tidy:
(Carefully supervised of course by gentle nurses,
Following rules the beaurocrats kindly assented to.)
And the only black in the room
Was the quiet that filled her belly,
And even then the white penetrated there
To absolve her of inconvenient conception.
The vacuum was plied with expert hands,
And a guilt-bladed knife worked things of horror.
The remains of a torn life were quietly taken away to market,
While sorrow struggled to enter, kept at bay
By the lying calm on the face of the eyeless nurses.
The book I wanted to read is locked,
No infant cry to sever those bonds and tell me the story
Of following life.
Only a single, questing, bloody hand reaching, seeking
Out of the smothering white plastic bag.

Dante: Abortion

This was an exercise that I did for a college classics class. I wrote it in imitation of the terza rima invented and employed by Dante Alighieri in his Divine Comedy. The rhyme scheme is thus ABA BCB CDC and so on. I also attempted to copy the poet’s device of contrapasso, in which a sinner’s eternal punishment in hell is suited to his crime.

_______________________________________________

And when I woke we stood upon a cliff’s edge
With nothing standing between us and the brink.
Down we slid, the doctor and I, ‘til the ledge

Was behind our hasty descent. And the stink
Of a boiling blood-lake assailed our senses
And red-raw grieving wails. My heart starts to sink.

The good doctor at my side quickly commences
To explain the dismayed sounds that fill my ears:
“The hidden massacre, of all offences

Most bloody, yet most beloved; childhood years
Cut short for convenience: abortion’s guilt
Drags here both women and men; boiling blood sears

Those who seared their conscience with infant blood, built
Lives off murder invisible. But the infants
Themselves, through God’s mercy, although their blood’s spilt

Before their time, live in His presence triumphant
But only if the parents belonged to God.
This lake holds also the small shades of those sent

By unbelieving families, an ephod
Weighing down their killers. Such is their reward.”
At this he stopped, as on the shore we now trod.

Another question came to me. “What award
Do those reap who perform this task for payment?”
The man from Intosh’s family answered

“Each lies on a scalpel blade for his torment,
Writhing over the tool of his trade, the weight
Of his bloody gold tied to his limbs, ‘til rent

In half, his flesh falls on either side, but fate
Decrees that shall happen for eternity.
His body whole once more, freshly cruciate

He’s on the blade.” We leave, circles new to see.

The Cover-up

The decision was made quite simply,
In a simple waiting room,
The obligatory magazines lounging on the table,
And floral patterns melting into the light blue wallpaper.
The operation was neat and tidy:
(Carefully supervised of course by gentle nurses,
Following rules the beaurocrats kindly assented to.)
And the only black in the room
Was the quiet that filled her belly,
And even then the white penetrated there
To absolve her of the inconvenience of conception.
The vacuum was plied with expert hands,
And a guilt-bladed knife worked things of horror.
The remains of torn muscle were quietly disposed of,
While sorrow struggled to enter, kept at bay
By the lying calm on the face of the eyeless nurses.
The book I wanted to read is locked,
No infant cry to sever those bonds and tell me the story
Of following life.
Only a single, questing, bloody hand reaching, seeking
Out of the smothering white plastic bag.