Note: Because of formating concerns, this poem is better viewed as a pdf:
Download My Child
The jaws of silver monsters
found you,
disemboweled you, ferocious
forceps leaving your tiny
chest eviscerated;
mutilated your precious
head, and maybe brain
asunder, you wonder
why you were squandered.
Curetted craters of flesh reveal
unknown thoughts
blackening, festering in quiescent
blood, lost postmen with
nowhere to deliver. I quiver
as I purse my lips and
blow a gentle wind to fill
your nose. And though
your breaths are still,
I still want you to feel
how tender air can be
as she caresses the
recesses of your empty throat
with a gentle tickle.
But life, like the wind,
is fickle. Yet somehow
still, we will take
a million more breaths.
And this, this is what
breathing feels like, my
child.
In my hands, I envelop
your disembodied arms, skeletal and torn.
I try my best to caress
what’s left of your flesh so you
know how warmth lingers
after fingers have touched you,
and not how silver,
slivered serpents have rent you.
I don’t know why I try
to put you back together,
you’re not a Barbie to
be fixed. This isn’t playtime,
there are no fixes for
the existence I’ve nixed.
Into your hips, I dumbly
bump the stumps of
your legs as I shift
them, animate them,
giving them motion,
locomotion with my imagination,
granting them a shade of
life. But I’m not a god
and God knows the days
and days have pained me. Yet
somehow still, we will
ourselves forward to take
a million more steps.
And this, this is what
walking feels like, my child.
As I hold your head
close to mine, my tears fall to places
in the spaces above your
face, where they trace out
rivulets of silent cries
and sighs onto eternally
lidded eyes. I imagine
you cooing, sincere with cheer with
a voice that the world
will never hear -- an unfinished
melody, a song that I
penned, but ended before the impending
chorus. Crimson drops
fall into my lap, from living rivers no
longer coursing. My
coarse hands rutilant, ruefully stained by
your darkened Spring. I
bring you closer, our foreheads nearly
touching. And I touch my
lips to your lips so you’ll know how I wish
I could kiss you ‘good
night’ every night. But Life is full of
heights and bottomless
dips for it knows no scripts, and now you know
that living hurts. Yet
somehow still, we will keep trying
a million more times.
And this, this is what
love feels like, my
child.
****************
Author’s Note: Dilation & Evacuation (D&E) refers to
a specific second trimester abortive procedure. The fetus is first terminated
with a lethal injection. Instruments such as forceps, vacuums, and curettes are
then used to remove the fetus from the uterus. Since the baby may be too large
to remove through the cervix, forcible dismemberment of the body is sometimes
necessary. This poem is inspired by a true mother’s story, but remains a piece
of poetic fiction.
Author Bio: Phil Delrosario is a senior in Human Biology
with a concentration in Psychological Development in Children and Adolescents
at Stanford University in California. He
enjoys writing, making short films, and playing his violin/piano/ukulele and is
a protégé of Professor Larry Zaroff.
Phil can be reached at pdelATstanford.edu.
