A/N: I'm pro-choice but I do not feel that it is my job as a writer to shove my beliefs down anyone's throat. I feel that my job is simply to write.


She runs out of the house
and doesn't stop until she reaches
the park. She kneels behind a bench
where the bugs surround her
like the love of Christ.
She bends over and throws up—
the vomit burns her throat,
pickles her mouth,
dribbles down her chin.
Her hand goes to her belly,
expecting the fetus to stir,
but all she feels inside her is nausea.

The father calls
and in a voice that's calmer
than when he first heard the news,
he says, "You have to kill it.
Now. Before it grows a backbone.
I'm sorry."

The afternoon she comes home
from the clinic, he is there
with a rose and an embrace.
He whispers in her ear, "I'm proud
of you. Please, don't cry."

So she doesn't.