Aborted:
Dear Daughter,
I would have loved you, if you were born.
But your time is not at hand.
We called you into this world
Conjured you into being through witchcraft magic of the night
Of open mouths, open wombs and aching orgasm.
But we didn’t mean to.
Didn’t realise the power of our bodies,
That lay dormant,
That we awoke to the rhythm when we woke you.
She gulps down a pill, swills the glass of water.
Goodbye, dear daughter.
We sit atop the sea-cliff and mourn you
Burn our intentions, our futures,
As we sit inhaling salt air, a hongi with Moana
Our incense line whips away unsmelled
Smoke rises in the wick-wind and we say goodbye.
Your mother and I look each other in the eye,
We look this decision in the eye and feel it,
And see you, in a memory of what could be,
But we close that door with a soft smile,
A deep knowing that it is right.
That this world is not where you need to be.
Sitting in the hospital waiting room,
Grey room,
Grey books,
Air conditioned to slowly drain your life,
And Dr. Jim tells us how awful it will be,
And we laugh at him.
How unprofessional.
I can see you smiling up at me,
A babe in my arms,
Hear a chuckle of your tickled tummy,
Feel peace when you stop crying because I hold you again,
Heart alight with love and pride when I think of you living
Of your strong spirit that wraps the world around your finger.
But your time is not at hand.
Anonymous Poet, 2020