into the river

rivers often scare  me, running
 wild , robbing banks after deluge
or spring melt. i fear drowning
swift water, rapids.. you stand
on the roof, awaiting rescue by helicopter
reflected below you  in what once
was earth, field,your driveway.
this is what mississippi means to me.
momma was eight months pregnant when
they lost everything to the flood. i was born
on the copter that saved her life.
we were evacuated to natchez . it was the worst of times
she says. i came too soon,
 she says. my daddy got lost
in the exodus, looking for a better place.
last she heard he was going  to florida
 to work construction. she says
i met him, but i don't remember.  my earliest
memory is waking up  most mornings
 before the sun , a bleary eyed
 trek to the kitchen where momma
cooked for thirty four women before
she sat down and ate with me.
i had to be quiet, she said. the women
were not to see me. i  played in the kitchen
with my raggedy ann doll. the potato bin
was a baby mine. i'd look through the day's
batch to be peeled.   momma let me pick
just one to pretend was annie's baby.
 when she was done preparing
 the rest, she let me peel
the last  , mine.
i could  play in the back yard
when the women were in class.
she said i had to be quiet, the women
were studying. i learned to hide when i heard
their voices. sometimes i saw them walking from
the school back to the house. they all had
huge bellies. once i asked mom why. they're
pregnant, she practically spit back at me.
  i didn't know what that was,
 but i knew i didn't want it
can i catch it? i asked.
that made her laugh. no baby, she said,
not right now. you're safe for a while.
















++)++








the last doctor who performs abortions
is speaking tonight. at the UU church on main.
there have been noises about protests
but we're mostly ignoring them.
brother tomas suggested we hire security
but the reverend said, and i quote
we will not bow to pressure. we will not
place violence on a leash in our chapel.
tomas said, half jokingly, how bout outside it then?
everyone laughed. no one agreed with him.
i ask the reverend but why now. why here?
up  the street, she says, is where rosa
sat down in the front of the bus for the first time.
i think it's appropriate not to mention ironic that the last person
willing to give women the same kind of rights
speak here. tonight
 just happens to be when he is available. we brace ourselves
for shouts of  "murderer!" and signs with aborted
fetuses on them. but apparently he's under the radar .
no crowds outside, no threats,all quiet.
at the after dinner we make polite conversation
about god's plan, how to get a calling, what time is his flight out?
he's so unassuming, this man. so compassionate.
i expect him to be murdered on the way to the airport.
but it doesn't happen. i begin to like god's plan.















*))*











becca came to me crying yesterday.
did he break up with you again? i ask.
she shook her head violently, no!
it's so much worse. ten minutes of sobbing later
the story was so common it was heartbreaking.
i thought becca was going to be the one
to make it out. she was on track
for emory. well, what are you gonna do
i ask. as if she has a choice. as if...


















(()))





i have decided to make my own little pro choice demo.
when the doc is in the clinic, people line the sidewalk
like a guantlet. i will be the first there, even if i have
to spend the night. i will be the last person she sees
before entering. my sign will have pictures of all the babies
murdered by their parents. it will be the largest sign there.
it will be carved in stone. i will wear it on my back, shaped
like a cross and when she arrives at last at where i stand
i will say there is no need for forgiveness. this choice is yours.