multiracial women line up at the free clinic
speaking different languages, faces bored
and tired from a long night of sleeplessness.
a condom breaks, and gives an unasked question
to a boy and a girl who were only wanting to make
art, have a life, combine themselves: but not make
something new, just making something new out of
the interpreter stands at the back wall,
hands in his pockets, midnight on his skin,
talking to a woman in unmatching socks and a long
white skirt, who interprets also. they speak the
same language they use as a vector to interpret
women who do not want their children, or women
who simply can not have children at the time. they
did or did not intend on meeting here. they did or
did not intend on speaking a language that most
americans do not hear every day. they did or did
not want to be there, breathing in the air of ladies
who are getting rid or getting taken from their (what?)
the hispanic woman at the front desk wears
eyeliner that is too thick to hide the eyes that are
tired of seeing women making bad mistakes. she knows
that woman is a sacred thing: she should not give herself
up unwillingly, she should not be anything less than a woman
should be. but she knows some women are a lesser breed:
she knows some women make mistakes: she knows some
women need another woman to help her understand. but
she also knows some women will never understand what it
is like to be truly woman.
the latex rips, and the girl skips school to answer
the unasked question. she will be woman, she knows, she
walks through that door. sure, it was her decision; sure,
it all ended badly, but somehow the memory of summer skin
and heat and blood and anger make it easier to hold her
head high and say "i need to speak to someone about
you know about -
the morning after pill.
there's been a mistake made."
and everything after: there's been a mistake made.
and everything after.