No 1: OBITUARY FOR AN ABORTION

IMAGE BY CASEY FRIEDMAN

CASEY FRIEDMAN

I don’t feel like writing poetry today.

I hope that is okay.

My pen feels too heavy and my lips are too chewed

my words feel so flat on the page.

If I did,

it would probably be about plastic sticks on 

school bathroom floors and the free testing 

that comes with a rape kit— 

just in case, of course.

I don’t feel like marching today.

I hope that is alright. 

My feet are so blistered.

The marks are starting to scar. 

If I did, it would probably be for

the clinic in Rhode Island 

that saved the life of someone I love. 

I don’t feel like praying today.

I hope you can forgive me.

I’ve long forgotten how to listen to my thoughts 

or to trust in some omniscient being. 

It’s hard to believe in gates or white light 

for when your ectopic bursts.

If I did, it would probably be for

the souls in purgatory, 

counting the hours before the nightmare sets in, 

looking up how to get care discreetly, 

or if it’s something they can even afford.

I don’t feel like crying today. 

I hope you understand.

I’ve had countless sleepless nights 

to prepare me for this day.

But somehow the numbness feels worse.

If I did, it would probably be for the mouths unfed, 

the bloodied hospital beds, 

the fumigating dread in the stomach 

of a girl too young to know what 

pregnant even means. 

For the mothers and daughters 

and cousins and brothers. 

For incest, rape, divorce, poverty, 

hunger, health, and disease.

For independence.

For the land of the young and six weeks. 

For the patients with cervical cancer and STDs. 

For past, present, and future me. 

For state lines, and counties, 

and the cost of a bus or a train. 

For Plan B, and contraception, 

vaginal rupturing, and for pain. 

I don’t feel like speaking today.

I’m tired of saying sorry.