A View of Choices

(I was at work last Friday afternoon when, all of a sudden, I got the inspiration for the first half of this poem, like someone was reading it to me. On the way home, the second half of the piece came to me.  I tweaked and worked it over the weekend, and came up with this analysis of what the right wing wants people to belief a woman's right to choose and what the truth actually is.  I hope this rings true enough to make people think about their positions.)

(Comic found on the Move On website, and attributed to the Matt Bors website.)

Freedom of Choice/Freedom from Choice

“Freedom of choice is what you got, freedom from choice is what you want.” – Lyric from “Freedom of Choice,” by Devo.

Freedom of Choice

She went to the doctor, yearly check-up time.

Blood drawn, weight checked, feet in stirrups.
“Oh yeah, while you’re down there,
can you give me an abortion too?
I almost forgot to ask….”
All her friends had gotten one, she
didn’t want to be left out.

She was sapphic in September,

it went with her wardrobe at the time –
lots of plaid and pink lipstick –
but last week, when she couldn’t resist buying
those red stilettos and matching lace push up bra,
she saw at the mall, it was time to change –
back to boys for her.

She was always changing her mind, choosing

different lifestyles lightning fast.
For the summer, she chose to be bi-racial,
bronzed skin, blow in the wind hair,
features beyond the borders of normal.
She’d always felt too normal.
In the winter, she would switch again –
all the magazines said Swedish will be the
in ethnicity for the season; she couldn’t
wait to try out blonde hair, blue eyes
and that meatball recipe she bought
on clearance at IKEA yesterday.

The doctor, this close to asking
“Are you sure?” bit his tongue,
it was her choice, after all.
He sent for the nurse,
sterilized his tools,
slipped on his gloves,
then realized, with one look
she wasn’t pregnant.

“Damn,” she said, sliding out the stirrups.

“I forgot to order the baby.  Guess I’ll do
that next month.   I’ll be done
being bisexual by then,”
and bounced out the door.

Freedom from Choice

She went to the doctor, reluctant,
rent money covering the co-pay.
Blood drawn, weight checked, feet in stirrups.
“Congratulations, you’re two months along,”
doctor said.  She could not return his smile. She had

two babies, too little luck with prophylactics,

too many people in her too small apartment,
two years of college to complete,
twenty-two grand in student loans to date.
Two days later, she told her boyfriend.
“How do you know it’s mine?”
trailed in the air as he traipsed out the door.
Too stunned by the betrayal, she had no backup plan.

Her roommate could relate, see she was in a similar bind.

She’d never wanted, never knew a man’s touch.
She only wanted acceptance for who she was.
Rainbow flag bumper sticker on her barely running car,
she didn’t flee from her feelings until that night
two months ago when, walking to her door,
he, the stubborn, surly neighbor next door
struck her, snatched her into the shadows.
“Bitch, how dare you say no to a man,”
he told her as he forced her.
“Bet you didn’t know what you were missing.
Bet you’ll never forget me.”

She went to the doctor, the police insisted;

blood drawn, swabs taken, feet in stirrups,
prescription hastily written, but when she went to
Target she was targeted again, the pharmacist
vanquished her backup plan – it violated his religion, so
he violated her with one self righteous refusal.

So now they sit together, these two,

cramped close on a cramped couch in a
cramped apartment, clutch hands, cry quietly.
One so her babies won’t see tears they can’t understand.
One fears betrayal when she tries to tell her baby
about an ordeal too ugly for anyone to understand.
Both fearing their future, both unable to sleep
because dreams can’t bring clarity to a choice
neither dreamed they’d have to make.

(c) 2011 – Tracey Morris, All Rights Reserved