I was recently approached by one of my residents about a scare they experienced in the first two weeks of their college experience. With their permission, I wrote a poem to help illustrate and decompress from the situation. 

 

Crowded stalls slant back and forth.

Crooked teeth leer

hiding cavities inside.

Feet tap absently on either end,

feet in between stand still.

 

Freckled forearms rest on freckled thighs.

Restless fingers chip

halos

into painted nails.

Mouth mumbles

Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy wo—

NO WOMBS.

 

Eyes wander pointedly

and scrutinize cheap walls.

Craters of rust match nails made holy

through no fault of their own.

Eyes follow freckles

avoiding their true target

and the 60 seconds ticking by.

 

Mama cries through memory’s window

clutching at a golden cross

balling soaked tissue against shaking thighs.

Lips form Blessed again as stomach clenches

no.

Not blessed.

Timing determines what is and isn’t blessed.

Now is not the time.

 

NO WOMBS screams mind

as lips continue

promising to virgin queens.

NO WOMBS screams mind as

tick

tick

tick

turns prayer and thought to one.

 

tick

tick

tick

as heartbeat does or does not multiply

and fingers do or do not shake

and mind does or does not concentrate

on butterflies that might have substance.