Confession
By Emily Hyland
I had the abortion after sitting
in a waiting room with
.
coupled teens in chairs.
I was a dock at night: empty
.
parting—I got called in and
a woman stuck a thing
.
inside me to
see another creature.
.
When it was time,
I didn’t realize there was
.
twilight. When they told me I
was too bereft, I
.
woke up in recovery and
chose some crackers.
.
They gave me apple juice and
Advil. I needed to pee.
.
They told me
that was common
.
like being barefoot
in half-light with fireflies,
.
stepping on ants
in summertime
.
red body against
red body of patio brick
.
mushed into naught, crumbled
stones of terra-cotta.
.
The night it happened
was the only time you
.
entered in when we
lived in separate homes. I
.
stood before the mirror after,
dark in the bathroom
.
full of shadows
like an altar,
.
I looked and
saw what happened:
.
what had rooted
in me for a reason, and
.
my confession is I
do not feed myself
.
with other beings,
unlike a carnivore
.
I have always
chosen life
.
against the deepest
well of grieving. So
.
when you tell me you have
healed from
.
my
betrayal
.
and sob on your
inadequate couch, I tell you
.
today we would be
eight months in,
.
you wail you didn’t want me
to choose this and flail
.
like an octopus caught.
I told a story, too,
.
how I miscarried. I
could not remain
.
fertile with despair
so let go
.
as do trees of their
ambering leaves.