today, in a public restroom,
i give birth

to the only fruit
my womb will ever produce:
a sanguine child, shredded and torn,
shapeless and faceless and lifeless.

the thick black ink of "god's plan"
mocks me from between my own thighs.
i stare blankly at the gray doors
as i hear the cries of the child
whose diaper is being changed outside.
i wonder: is she a good mother?
will that child grow up with bruises,
on his heart, on his face?

i am told, time after time,
to trust god, benevolent god,
and i can only grit my teeth--

for god so loved this child
that he forbade me to have my own.