Part of the Series
The Struggle for Caregiving Equity
I had written a completely different article for Mother’s Day, but when — between May Day and Mother’s Day — someone leaked a draft of the Supreme Court’s plan to overturn Roe v. Wade, I decided to turn back to the text of the Roe decision. The decision affirms that access to safe abortions is a constitutional right protected by the federal government. Early in the Roe majority opinion by Supreme Court Justice Blackmun, a line appears that is surprisingly poetic for a legal argument:
We forthwith acknowledge our awareness of the sensitive and emotional nature of the abortion controversy, of the vigorous opposing views, even among physicians, and of the deep and seemingly absolute convictions that the subject inspires. One’s philosophy, one’s experiences, one’s exposure to the raw edges of human existence, one’s religious training, one’s attitudes toward life and family and their values, and the moral standards one establishes and seeks to observe, are all likely to influence and to color one’s thinking and conclusions about abortion.
What might “exposure to the raw edges of human existence” look and feel like for the people most impacted by the threat against federal protection of safe abortions — oppressed and marginalized people, survivors of the prevalent sexual violence culture in the United States, and poor women, girls and queer people without access to autonomous medical care?
What would we do if those of us who believe in safety, embodied self-determination and care for all people collectively acknowledged what it means to be on the edge?
I hope that when future generations tell the story of what happened between May Day and Mother’s Day in 2022, they remember that a large coalition of people, emboldened by love, came together to protect each other beyond fear and without shame. In that sense, this is a love poem and prayer.
edges
the black becoming blue of morning after
the toilet stall of white becoming pink
the still raised red the heat of fresh slapped face
the metal slot of a just-locked drugstore door
the papercut of peace denied
the growl the car makes right before it dies
the grazing gown on grateful thighs
the salted corner of your day-stretched eye
the fast-eroding sand becoming sea
the fraying hairs closest to your temple
the names of god you call when no one listens
the tether on your ankle while you drown
the punch of breaching whale in cannon breath
the carbon glut that means the ocean’s death
the surest way to keep you out of school
the line between the joker and the fool
the bleaching coral white before it browns
the bleeding reputation of your town
the worn-out names for more falling out teeth
the flammable dryness of your Christmas wreath
the hourly room, the itching bed
the hand-torn crust communion bread
the telling and the untelling and keep
the landfill smell the grassy heap
the hand to hold, the fist to fear
the hardest three-fourths of a year
the thickest part of blood
the meaning of the county line
the place where plants learn to grow sideways
the place where the murderous coyote tries to corner the roadrunner
the moment when he learns the grounded bird has gone
the way ACME keeps itself in weapons
the rash from the bracelet before it turns green
the gasp of the species before it melts itself
the last day of the unpaid month
the rented dawn
the secret spawn of senators shuttled away to quiet
the diet of stamps
the leaking street lamps promising to walk you home
the blameworthy sportswear
the child-locked car we’re already inside
the shotgun tasting
the pharmacy cake
the voice at the bottom of the well
the impossible wellness
the sticky-hand permission slips
the hole where the twist-lock doorknob used to be
the twitch of the mouth you learn
the moment monsters dress themselves in family skin
the wet of preacher’s mouth when his subject turns to sin
the third baptism
the last confession
the grout between the tile on the floor
the only store open
the standby flight
the stranger couch
the sleepless night before
the insulting audacity of every dream
the unaffordable more
the polluted shore
the forgotten birthday
the face behind your blink
the stubble-clogged sink
the choking garden
the white-collar pardon
the hole in holy war
the finished before
the bolt-cut locker
the untreated sore
the time he took the hinges off the door
the repacked bag
the dragging heels
the scraped-out soles
the yard-sale stroller
the parking lot dandelion
the dry-clean only stains
the sharpened pencil teacher you told
the red pen of the one who already knew
the spring they cancelled the daddy-daughter church lock-in
the can’t remember days before graduation
the can’t forgets
the please not yets
the night the moon disappears
the terrifying fertile years
the pinstriped wink through the window
the soft places to land on Mars
the quiet electric backseat getaway cars
the afterschool sound barrier
the expired bus transfer
the rising costs of over-the-counter concealer
the florist tab
the stab you in the back make-up date
the not yet noticeable weight
the purple eye
the painted lip
the trashed receipts from weekend trips
the hotel lotion
the bitter tear-steeped tea of prayer
the addendum to the non-disclosure agreement
the unsaved password for the burner account for the money transfer
the billboard exit on the highway where god starts to need advertising
the gillnet slicing the throat of the last vaquita
the day you know no amount of french fries will fill this hunger
the last breath of the speech thanking our veterans for being so willing to kill
the final note of any song about your freedom
the hour they start to play the “Cosby” reruns
the dotted lines on coupons in your grocery app
the feathery feel before the soft of T-shirt becomes hole
the phlegm of the lurking troll saying ‘you shall not pass’
the sell-by date of penicillin
the inches oceans have to rise
the degrees of heat before the sky becomes convection
the quick affection of despair
the tuck of hair behind your ear
the ridge where the side of your shoe cuts your swell
the spell with the missing word
the shoal with the broken bottles
the walls and stairs that hold your secrets
the places skin loses its hue
the exact amount of blood you can lose and still breathe
the precise proportion of blunt to sharp words when you leave
the heartbeats between May Day and Mother’s
the pronunciation of justice
the number of i’s in opinion
the repetition of s in dissent
the name kept out of your mouth
the part of the key that can cut
the overlap of dream and memory
the gut elbow rhythm of again
the shelf where dystopia sells as nonfiction
the need
the light
the right
the day
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