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Poem

I Had a sick vision;
all the aborted blastopore, blastula, embryo’s
and limb budding fetuses irradicated this year so far
we’re making their slow painful way
past the Supreme Courts.

Some carried clusters of not-differentiated cells
in their undeveloped arms,
most were rudimentary sentient beings;
They left slick trials of blood behind them,
and behind those tell-tale trails
followed females dressed in red garb
screaming “My body, my choice!”

One late-term victim spoke out
explaining to anyone who would listen
that intrauterine babies were not ‘their’ body,
no more than a pup belongs to the body of a dog,
that it took two humans to fertilize an egg,
and a becoming embryonic organism
is a being separate from any other body
while only sojourning within its mother
to be nourished until 
it could be brought forth
as an autonomous human life.

Upon hearing this, the outraged crowd
grew yet more feral, frothing at the mouth
while yelling incoherently.
They set upon the aborted
with steely knives and many a curse.

Blood ran through the Capital,
and their chanting could be heard
upon the breeze
of every warm summer evening there,
until winter snow’s arrived
to bury the already dead.

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