Horrific Killing of the Unborn Will Be Condoned by Clinton if She Is President

I started to write this poem 11 years ago – right before my mother forced me to have an abortion at 10 weeks of pregnancy. Early testing had suggested the baby might have a Trisomy genetic disorder, one that would cause the baby to die in the womb or shortly after birth. But the doctors said they couldn’t be sure about the diagnosis until the fetus was much farther along. So it could have been a healthy baby, but even if it had been doomed to die so soon, I still had the right to have my child. Granted, it was conceived by accident, on a one-night attempted reunion with my soon to be ex. And I have a limited income and l live in subsidized housing, but I still had a right to birth my child.

But my mother was adamant. I was sobbing in the waiting room, begging not to have the abortion, but she wouldn’t listen. It was horrific. Whatever medication I was given to help me calm down did nothing. I felt the entire “procedure”, physically and throughout all of my Being…but I buried most of the pain…I did ask for the ashes, but God only knows how many discarded lives were in that incinerator…in any case, I had the ashes put in a lovely urn laden in a blue velvet- covered box. I am so haunted, so broken that I was forced to kill my baby…And then a few days ago, I found the words and the courage to finish the following poem. I wrote it and I share it so that other women might not do what I did. I hope the poem makes them weep, and the hope it also causes the women who remorselessly aborted, so that they would finally feel the horror of it. Anyway, this is my offering to the killed babies everywhere. I hope it makes a difference. I hope it saves a child…

Poem for the Pre-Aborted

Blow down the little baby like a paper boat.
Downstream where the dead fish flow.
Blood of life, blood of stones thrown.
Arrow, bow, find the doe while she is sleeping.
She doesn’t want to know that you will gut her,
Or smell the hand of the one
who’ll put her under
this knife. A mother who eats
her own young.

Cutting, cut the sails before they ever know the wind.
Listen – can you hear the ocean in this sorry shell?
Something pink and crying,
swaddled clothing
never worn.

Tell your story now, while you still can, a plank
not walked, but cast aloft, you sink
before the air has ever found your lungs.
Look Mom, no rungs
let down to hoist you up,
your grave unmarked,
your soul untried.
I cannot even look at you
before the garbage bag,
or let your toes grow nails, or kiss away a bruise.
Instead, I let the Mother of All Fears
devour you, I plot your death. I cut my arms.
I fill the shell with sand to stop the scream.

Blow down the little baby like a paper boat.
Cut the sails before they ever know the wind.
Scalp the womb and scrape the skin,
and pull its tiny arms and legs apart like chicken wings,
or wish upon the bloody drum
that you seek mercy from
but don’t tell anyone
you’d rather that
it would have done
the same
to you.

By Hillary Frasier Hays
7/28/16