(no subject)
Apr. 4th, 2004 05:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
novapsycheAs I've been involved in a recent discussion about abortion, I thought I'd post this here.
Obtruding
I.
I felt it in the pit of me,
germinating like rhizome,
wending its way through, creeping
with prodding, violet tendrils,
pushing and pressing,
smudging my insides with sanguine stains.
When my father, who could not feel
my wayward blossoming,
bent with a friendly kiss for my forehead,
I shrank away like the violet inside me,
wanting to hide and grow in the dark of me,
undisturbed, untouched,
desiring me smudged and swollen.
My father, tall and straight like a reed,
could never grasp the growth
ruminating and lurking within me
and would never condone
the snarl of sensuality
it represents.
II.
When I tell Troy about the decor at the doctor's office
it is raining, the sky one broad canvas of gray.
His face is in the foreground, and he is staring
at the cracks in the hardwood floor
as I tell him how expensive the next visit will be.
He is saying how, and I look at his hands
tighten into strange fists, so incongrous here,
with the lone light dangling above in this small apartment
and the tinge of dust on the walls.
I am lying on the sofa, my hands on my stomach,
listening to the rain as it taps overhead
and to his voice as he says I need some air
and opens the southfacing window.
He is letting the rain wash his face with droplets.
I smell the fresh rain blow through the room
and he is repeating how and are you sure.
I nod as he sits on the thin white windowsill,
watching his shirt become dotted and wet,
and I am saying father, father.
I am watching him at the window,
observing the way he leans into the rain.
III.
The nurse lets me grip her hand
as I lie on the sanitized swath of paper,
the room smelling of humidity,
and the lights just low enough to remind me
of lakewater late at night.
I have not eaten all morning, and I am hungry.
The nurse leans down and whispers
Things will be a lot easier if you just relax.
I try not to think about the metal rods.
I think to myself So these are what cramps are like.
I think about silence after suction
and how the local hardly eases any pain at all.
I think about the release I signed an hour before
and my lover in the lobby reading Field & Stream
and how it is 10:45 in the morning.
When they let me eat, I surprisingly only want
what they offer: crackers and orange juice.
Someone leads Troy in to see me
as the nurse administers the Rh shot.
Troy asks me how I am, and I reply The room is bright.
He puts his hand over my eyes.
IV.
In my dream
I dressed in gardening clothes,
a broadbrimmed hat on my head
to protect against the midday sun,
my clothes gritty with dirt
and my face smudged.
I walked into a wide garden
of neatly sprouting corn,
each row stretching out to the horizon,
and knew that if I tended this garden well
I would always have direction.
I walked until I came upon
a dandelion in my path,
the head puckered and yet to sprout.
I thought back to my childhood
when I didn't understand why my father,
tending his own plot behind our house,
removed all of that pretty yellow.
We must all keep an orderly yard
was all that he would say.
And so, in my dream and much older,
I reached out, spade in my gloved hand,
and plucked that weed from my tidy gardenbed,
wanting nothing in the way
of my path ahead.
V.
I had not looked forward to this,
this lying in bed, covers to my neck,
knowing that it was 2:45 in the afternoon,
knowing that I would have to call.
It had been months since that unfortunate kiss,
the memory of it still an inward cringe to me.
You know you have to call Troy said from the living room,
knowing I was not asleep.
I thought about my father at home, on his own bed,
halfheartedly listening to a crackly sportscaster,
as he played a lonely game of solitaire
on cards almost too worn to recognize.
There would be a mug of tepid coffee, black with one sugar,
and the window opened a crack to let the breeze through.
He would be sitting there, making sure the cards
stayed flat on the mattress.
To him, there would be nothing special about this day,
this Saturday, where he would already have plans
to watch boxing that evening on the old black and white,
not expecting me to call.
I reached over and took the phone from its cradle,
depressing buttons, thinking of how home
was no longer physical but rather a place in my heart,
and I thought of how that landscape
bore no resemblance to the one where I was heading
as I heard my father's voice on the other end
and I opened my mouth to speak.
1996
Obtruding
I.
I felt it in the pit of me,
germinating like rhizome,
wending its way through, creeping
with prodding, violet tendrils,
pushing and pressing,
smudging my insides with sanguine stains.
When my father, who could not feel
my wayward blossoming,
bent with a friendly kiss for my forehead,
I shrank away like the violet inside me,
wanting to hide and grow in the dark of me,
undisturbed, untouched,
desiring me smudged and swollen.
My father, tall and straight like a reed,
could never grasp the growth
ruminating and lurking within me
and would never condone
the snarl of sensuality
it represents.
II.
When I tell Troy about the decor at the doctor's office
it is raining, the sky one broad canvas of gray.
His face is in the foreground, and he is staring
at the cracks in the hardwood floor
as I tell him how expensive the next visit will be.
He is saying how, and I look at his hands
tighten into strange fists, so incongrous here,
with the lone light dangling above in this small apartment
and the tinge of dust on the walls.
I am lying on the sofa, my hands on my stomach,
listening to the rain as it taps overhead
and to his voice as he says I need some air
and opens the southfacing window.
He is letting the rain wash his face with droplets.
I smell the fresh rain blow through the room
and he is repeating how and are you sure.
I nod as he sits on the thin white windowsill,
watching his shirt become dotted and wet,
and I am saying father, father.
I am watching him at the window,
observing the way he leans into the rain.
III.
The nurse lets me grip her hand
as I lie on the sanitized swath of paper,
the room smelling of humidity,
and the lights just low enough to remind me
of lakewater late at night.
I have not eaten all morning, and I am hungry.
The nurse leans down and whispers
Things will be a lot easier if you just relax.
I try not to think about the metal rods.
I think to myself So these are what cramps are like.
I think about silence after suction
and how the local hardly eases any pain at all.
I think about the release I signed an hour before
and my lover in the lobby reading Field & Stream
and how it is 10:45 in the morning.
When they let me eat, I surprisingly only want
what they offer: crackers and orange juice.
Someone leads Troy in to see me
as the nurse administers the Rh shot.
Troy asks me how I am, and I reply The room is bright.
He puts his hand over my eyes.
IV.
In my dream
I dressed in gardening clothes,
a broadbrimmed hat on my head
to protect against the midday sun,
my clothes gritty with dirt
and my face smudged.
I walked into a wide garden
of neatly sprouting corn,
each row stretching out to the horizon,
and knew that if I tended this garden well
I would always have direction.
I walked until I came upon
a dandelion in my path,
the head puckered and yet to sprout.
I thought back to my childhood
when I didn't understand why my father,
tending his own plot behind our house,
removed all of that pretty yellow.
We must all keep an orderly yard
was all that he would say.
And so, in my dream and much older,
I reached out, spade in my gloved hand,
and plucked that weed from my tidy gardenbed,
wanting nothing in the way
of my path ahead.
V.
I had not looked forward to this,
this lying in bed, covers to my neck,
knowing that it was 2:45 in the afternoon,
knowing that I would have to call.
It had been months since that unfortunate kiss,
the memory of it still an inward cringe to me.
You know you have to call Troy said from the living room,
knowing I was not asleep.
I thought about my father at home, on his own bed,
halfheartedly listening to a crackly sportscaster,
as he played a lonely game of solitaire
on cards almost too worn to recognize.
There would be a mug of tepid coffee, black with one sugar,
and the window opened a crack to let the breeze through.
He would be sitting there, making sure the cards
stayed flat on the mattress.
To him, there would be nothing special about this day,
this Saturday, where he would already have plans
to watch boxing that evening on the old black and white,
not expecting me to call.
I reached over and took the phone from its cradle,
depressing buttons, thinking of how home
was no longer physical but rather a place in my heart,
and I thought of how that landscape
bore no resemblance to the one where I was heading
as I heard my father's voice on the other end
and I opened my mouth to speak.
1996
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-04 03:01 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-05 05:42 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-05 08:46 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-05 04:19 pm (UTC)