I’ll share mine.
My future father-in-law
was a physician, I was pregnant
with his grandchild. Legs spread
apart in his office on a kraft paper
covered table. Tears filled an after-life
of rivers while his hands dropped
sterile instruments, they forever echo.
He cleansed my uterus
eradicating all signs of life.
How could he? How could I?
He dissected, discarded.
Aborted his first grandchild
probably buried her, or him
in the backyard, next to Kriksi,
his pet German shepherd–
he shot in the head after a bite.
How could I, he,
or we, do this on July 4th—
Fireworks charged the winds
filling endless wells of guilt.
They are all dead, I live.
Was it a girl or boy harboring
this empty womb?
Another wild iris rises from the pits.