Content Warning: Abortion
Envelop me.
Sing voiceless hymns in the
void between waking and forgetting.
Betray me with your stillness,
wound me with your song.
Wordless grace blesses me,
stills me,
haunts my womb empty forever but once.
Once you were there
I cannot tell what part of me is you anymore,
what part of your infinitessimal
universe resides in me still,
urging me to make more of the
life your absence afforded me.
No.
Not your absence.
Your removal.
In my heart you sing and twirl
sunlight splashes your hair,
your laughter charms the air.
But you are not there.
You are not here.
You exist in a part of me I cannot name.
I whisper truth into my soul:
I am not worthy of your love.
“In my early thirties, I had to terminate a pregnancy for medical reasons (mine and the foetus’s). It was a harrowing experience and the stigma around abortion is strong. I once was told, from the pulpit, that I was going to hell for a choice I made out of love: I could not knowingly bring a child into a life of suffering. Every Mothers’ Day I light a candle for my child and wonder about what might have been, had circumstances been different. This poem is the result of one such session.”
Kendra Whitfield lives and writes on the southern edge of the northern boreal forest. When not writing, she can be found basking in sunbeams on the back deck or swimming laps at the local pool. Her poetry has been anthologized by Beyond the Veil Press and Community Building Art Works.