The news spread like wildfire tonight
that I had an abortion at twenty
and now, am I on trial?
Strangers comment with their virtual pitchforks:
You mutilated your body beyond repair!”
I cannot fight all battles,
especially not of blood lines
connecting me to generations
Picketers outside clinics
never respect the reason
—they who decided the size
of a pomegranate seed
is the supreme being
—they who think we dispose of
our babies at the drop of a hat
when we learn unexpected complications.
Brokenness is their usual expectation
when the façade of a perfect woman existed
in a ten-year secret.
Now with the news all over the internet
you want to put me away
and call me a cursed woman.
Can you now see why
I never told you?
I am still me
but you refuse to listen.
You hate the power I have
in disclosing this little secret
that finally released me
when it was revealed.