Baby’s in the cradle
because you
put her there, buddy.
While mommy cried, no
more subdividing my body
into plots, then setting up house.
Selling our uterus for votes,
and using moral superiority
as your shield.
You were a thief in the night.
Laying claim to our bodies
with a flourish of the pen,
that cut through our choice,
to render the impossible, possible.
You who have no place
in our reproductive biography.
We shout like a black cloud
of crows, to get off of our land—
or we’ll leave the dishes and children,
the cooking and tending,
the factories and hospitals,
nursing homes and banks,
schools and prisons,
ghettos and suburbs behind.
All those places that are held
together by the glue of our kindness,
will whither and die. And throwing
nice aside for a moment
let It be said that
our biggest enemy
is simply shaking our heads,
instead of plunging
into a battle
for the sanctity
of our own bloody lives.
Jude Neale
Image : Pixabay - jeffjacobs1990
