PLEASE NOTE: If you are strictly anti-abortion, you probably won’t want to read this. Better yet, perhaps you should, because it deals with a particular “method of conception,” as one lawmaker so callously put it recently. So that makes me… a walking uterus? And since I’m post-menopausal, that would make me useless… It’s like how they called cigarettes a “nicotine delivery system.” And don’t get me started on “legitimate rape.” It’s violence and power, not sex. Hey, women can see past this malarkey. Remember in November, sisters!
Scroll down a bit for the poem.
Since the Procedure
First appointment since
her miserable abortion.
She’s 18 – nervous, tearful.
The nurse who knows her and
helped with the procedure
is by her side. Part rock, part teddy bear.
Then Doctor steps in.
Without a word, detached,
he flips up the stirrups
like it’s a mechanical bull and
not an exam table. “Slide up,”
are his first words to her.
He invades her with icy hands.
Palpates roughly.
Orders her to relax.
This from the man who
vacuumed her womb
only last week. He performed
the abortion, but you can feel
his disgust toward his patient.
“I said RELAX.” She tenses at the command.
Then, he mumbles, “I can’t do this
if you don’t cooperate.”
Briskly sheds his latex gloves;
brusquely exits the room.
Nurse holds the girl as she shakes and sobs,
“Take the money and run, doc.”
Later, Doctor gripes, “These girls
get in this type of trouble
and I have to take care of it but
they don’t help, not a bit.”
Nurse blurts, “Yeah, don’t you hate it when
girls go out and get themselves raped?
Honest to God, you have no idea, do you?”
Her indignant outburst is lost on him as he
flips through a Bermuda Vacation catalog.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Three Word Wednesday (yes, it’s Sunday, I’m well aware!) asked for a poem including the words Miserable, Brisk, and Detached. I knew a doctor like this… one of my friends was raped and he had ZERO pity, zero compassion. There are plenty of wonderful doctors, but this guy wasn’t one of them. That nurse (Catholic by faith, dedication to social justice gospel) quit the practice and opened a counseling center for girls and women recovering from abortion. “It has to be legal, clean, and safe,” she said, “but it doesn’t have to be even more traumatic than what some of them went through to need the procedure in the first place.”
I will also challenge readers at dverse Open Mic… perhaps I’ll get some flack. In fact, I hope I do, if only to open the door for mutually understanding and conversation. May every child be a wanted child, Amy
Psych Ward Visitor
In the Bin
again and I notice
someone’s playing
peek-a-boo
Someone just out of sight
Furtive, foggy, stalking us
Around the corner
near the Med Line
Waiting to see
who’s farthest gone
Patiently holding vigil
as patients tossturn
overnight ‘til dawn
He bides his time
rolling dice that are
all snake eyes
No worry, no hurry
He’s not on a schedule
Then Lonnie got a call
His wife wants a divorce
She took the kids and
he can’t do a thing but moan
Next morning
we watch him swing
as the nurses try
to cut him down
No resuscitation, he’s
blue and past blues
We all cry and then
I realize, shuddering
the stranger is gone
Death is done – for today
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Trifecta, the definition of Death as the destroyer of life, represented usually as a skeleton with a scythe. In this case, Death is a bit sneakier… but always gets his man (or woman). Also at the Poets United Poetry Pantry, where you’ll find a diverse group writing about all sorts of things!
I’m finally back from vacation. We are well but tired… I watched most of the Republican Convention and am in the midst of reviewing the Democratic Convention. I wish more people would watch BOTH sides of the damned “aisle”!
Couldn’t stop thinking about the troops as I watched those foolish delegates in their funny hats, all having fun during what should be a defining moment in politics. So here is my tribute to one selfless servant. Peace, Amy
Nurse in the Field (Afghanistan)
Nine hours into her shift
she steals a moment to smooth
errant hairs, captured and secured by
mock tortoise side combs.
The last wave was
a mind-numbing parade of
the barely living
and the too-soon dead.
Checking the morphine drip on
an amputee, she wonders why
nurses dress in pastel scrubs.
Cruel joke, the blood spatter,
carrying iodine-splattered lost limbs
across to the bins.
She used to count the number
of fingers and toes per shift; something
to divert her mind from the horror.
Now she breathes in madness, exhales exhaustion.
In WWI, they were gassed and blinded.
In the Second, shot or blown to pieces by grenades.
In Nam (where her mom served), they bathed our boys
in the finest toxins Dow and co. could manufacture.
Agent Orange could kick 007’s ass easily, if slowly.
Now men and women are hit by drones, as
stateside geeks “do battle” like a game of Pac-Man.
They cannot be sure of their target other than from
“actionable (questionable) intelligence.” Tonight
it might be a grandmother and her family, or the
piece de resistance of warspeak: “Friendly fire.”
The nurse strips fatigues from a screaming airman.
His legs lie still but arms are flailing like a meth-head.
Restraints: cruel but necessary as she injects morphine.
Evidence of spinal damage, extensive brain trauma…
She croons, “Slooooow down, we’ve gotcha.” Her
honeyed voice seems to sooth him, “You’re gonna
be all ri-” Then the flat line no greased paddles will stir.
She’ll hear five final, strangled exhalations before
her break comes up. A few hours of sleep, and
she’ll emerge looking refreshed, gearing up for
the second-roughest game in Kabul:
Patching up the pawns, gurneyed pieces
from the chess board of battle.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For The Sunday Whirl (Wordle is shown below), dverse Open Mic Night, and Sunday Scribblings (the prompt was Soothe). Also at the site where I am always soothed: Poets United.
Sharp Little Pencil 