Friday, July 15, 2005


We sat alone in the clinic, you and I,
and they tortured us with endless Shania Twain.
The gave me a nightie
and a sanitary towel.
And left me in a room full of other girls
with the same tearless expression on their faces.
I was the last to be wheeled out
and I never said goodbye to you
as the needle went in.

I woke and you were gone.
I wanted to see you.
I didn't know how big you were.
How you'd grown.

I imagined you pickled in a jar
curved and creamy white,
like a seahorse
in formaldehyde
with tiny grasping hands

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