The Procedure

Would his hair have been black?
Would his eyes have been dark?
Or would they have been blue, like the sky?
Would blonde wisps have tickled his ears?

I listen to the machines, feel the cold metal on the bottoms of my feet.

Would his feet have run like the wind?
Would his legs have been long?
Or would they have been short, and sturdy, like his father's?
Would his strong hands have worked hard?

I am nauseated, the room spins as I stare up at the ceiling.

Would he have been persistent?
Would he have overcome obstacles?
Or would he have tried to fade away, unseen, like his mother?
Would he have caved to the expectations?

I feel the tissue paper against my back.
I see the masked faces around me.
I swim in a sea of white and blue and sterilized instruments....

I cry and begin to mourn as my unborn son is torn from my body.

(this poem is copyright protected)