Toward the Body by Simone Savannah

I can’t stop looking at children
I keep picking them up and imagining they are mine
Their noses, their fingers, the way the little girl’s eyes
have taken the shape of chocolate almonds.
If her name is Aniyah or Olivia, I know God is fucking with me.
I pick her up and want to kiss her, but just tickle her arms
so her mother doesn’t think I’m lonely or begging—

I still have the panties I wore five years ago
They are pink and stained
the nurse was brown and pregnant and offered me a cookie
I laughed but I cannot remember if I took it
I know it was chocolate and had cream in the middle
I know she made me sign one last piece of paper
and told me where to find the exit

Sometimes in public I caress the whole of my belly
I imagine I am lying across the bed in B’s duplex
as he searches for abortion clinics and writes down prices
or my breasts are leaking white onto his bed
or six and a half weeks too late to do anything about

Really I just lay there as the doctor vacuumed
her flesh-blood body from mine
only imagined lifting my body up from the table
my pussy dilated and bare
and running out of the room—

B wanted confirmation
he wouldn’t take off work to witness
the detachment
the cloth colored jar I wanted to see into—

These days when he asks me how I feel
I tell him he still owes me his half of the procedure

Simone Savannah is a poet from Columbus, Ohio. She is a Phd candidate in Creative Writing at the University of Kansas. Her work is forthcoming or has appeared in BlackberryBig LucksPowder KegApogee, and GlitterMOB

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