Dear Son/Daughter

Today marks three years and still I don’t quite know
whether to tell you I’m sorry, I should have let you grow,

Or if this choice, all mine, was the best—because you see,
dear Son/Daughter, you deserved a better mother than me.

Three years ago today, I kept, at half past noon
the appointment that sealed your—and my—impending doom.

Your father wasn’t there, I was all alone
in the waiting room, debating the unknown.

I was twenty-one, with an apartment, a job, a car,
but no man, and that job was at this run-down bar…

I drink a little too much, that’s what got me in this mess
dear Son/Daughter, would you have been more love or stress?

There were seven other women in the waiting room:
eyes averted, fidgeting hands avoiding soon-to-be-tomb wombs.

Dear Son/Daughter, I saw you once, on the ultrasound machine,
a small spot in the middle of the fuzziness on the screen—

It was never real until that second I saw you.
my eyes began to water, and as if that were his cue,

The doctor told me it wouldn’t hurt, that everything would be okay:
no one explained how empty I’d feel when the knife took you away.

They told me about cramps, bleeding, days missed from work,
but not once did they mention the regrets that would lurk,

Or how every time I saw a heavily pregnant woman, I would sigh
and just driving past Babies-R-Us would make me want to cry,

Or even that now, when I pick my neice up from day care,
I’d wonder what face would have been yours, what clothes you would wear…

But then I think, would this life of mine have been enough?
a commitment like you would have called my unending bluff.

Because I knew I couldn’t give you everything I would have wanted,
I used my right to liberty to take your right to life, which I took for granted.

Yet happiness has eluded me—I hope you found it on the other side:
dear Son/Daughter, please don’t tell me your only chance was the life I denied.

I dress in all black today, asking myself for the millionth time: would morning
sickness have been better than mourning?

The Garden of Life

After I put in my eight long hours today

Slumped against the sign at the bus stop

And trudged home on aching feet

A familiar sight greeted me:

My mother weeding her garden

Wearing her wide-brimmed hat

And gardening gloves

On her hands and knees

Rooting for the roots of those which crowd,

Clutter, and slowly but surely destroy her

Little patch of green

I thought about my day, my week, the last few months

And, watching my mother, I decided then and there

That I wanted to do the same thing,

Just on a bigger scale

She weeds her garden

I want to weed my life.

The bad bits from the past, with such deep roots

I want to hunt them down

One by one

Examine them, find their weak spots

(Rather than the other way around)

And dig them out, once and for all

I want to pull with a ferocity

That rids me of all the anger I hoard inside

I refuse to further nourish the sad parts

Watering them with my tears

And I’ll no longer shy away from the scary ones

Now they’ll have me to fear

But maybe this won’t be as easy as it seems

For while it’s easy enough to distinguish

Dandelion from daffodil,

Simple daisies aren’t really flowers,

So tell me…are you?

I need to put you into a category

Do you stay or do you go?

Because I could never forget you,

But forget-me-nots…they’re weeds too.

This time I can’t wait for you

To decide, to make up your mind

I just don’t have that kind of time

This time, the choice is mine

To dig up even the deepest roots and force you out

Or to declare you to be truly unforgettable,

A morning glory open and wonderful sometimes,

And closed the next…

A truly miraculous flower?

Is all the joy worth all the pain?

Could anything ever fill the hole you’d leave?

I need to know:

Are you a flower or a weed?