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

something old.

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?)

children?

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

that pill

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.