Choice Words

by Annie Finch

  Her eyes were pinched closed. Her mouth was open, but no sounds came out. She could not breathe. So much pain! I can still see that look on her face, hurting worse than any slap to my own.

  I rushed over to Yiku, but Wen Fu pushed me away and I fell. And then I heard her cry again. Her breath finally came back! And she cried even louder, higher. Kwah! Wen Fu hit her again—kwah!—again and again. And by the time I could get to my feet and push my body in between, I saw Yiku had rolled up into a little ball. She was making small animal sounds. And I was crying and begging Wen Fu, “Forgive me! I was wrong! Forgive me!”

  After that, every time Yiku saw her father come into the room, she fell down and curled herself up small, just like the first time. She sucked her fingers, making little sounds. This is true, only six months old, and she had learned not to cry. Can you imagine—a baby who learned to be that scared before she even knew how to crawl away?

  She became a strange baby. She never looked at people’s faces. She pulled out hair from one side of her head. She banged her head on the wall. She waved her hands in front of her face and laughed. And when she learned how to walk, she stood on her toes, like a ballerina dancer. She tiptoed quickly across the floor, as if she could lift herself up into the air with each step. But each time she saw her father come into the room, she fell back down again, same as when she was a baby. She did not cry. She spoke no words, only the outside shapes of them, like the voice of a ghost.

  Her voice sang up and down, high and pretty, sounding the way I often called to her, “Yiku, look at me, look at me.” And then her voice would become harsh, grunting the same way Wen Fu shouted, “Yiku, stupid thing. Go away!” Those were the only sounds she knew how to make.

  She was strange all the time. I was worried, so worried. But Hulan kept telling me, “When she’s older, she’ll change. Now she’s just nervous. Everyone’s the same way. When the war is over, she’ll change. You’ll see.”

  I wanted to believe her. Why wouldn’t I? I had never raised a baby. I didn’t want to think my baby had lost her mind. I kept thinking the war would soon be over, then Yiku would get better. I believed that, one hope leading to the other.

  THE END

  Sharon Olds

  We decided to have the abortion, became

  killers together. The period that came

  changed nothing. They were dead, that young couple

  who had been for life.

  As we talked of it in bed, the crash

  was not a surprise. We went to the window,

  looked at the crushed cars and the gleaming

  curved shears of glass as if we had

  done it. Cops pulled the bodies out

  Bloody as births from the small, smoking

  aperture of the door, laid them

  on the hill, covered them with blankets that soaked

  through. Blood

  began to pour

  down my legs into my slippers. I stood

  where I was until they shot the bound

  form into the black hole

  of the ambulance and stood the other one

  up, a bandage covering its head,

  stained where the eyes had been.

  The next morning I had to kneel

  an hour on that floor, to clean up my blood,

  rubbing with wet cloths at those glittering

  translucent spots, as one has to soak

  a long time to deglaze the pan

  when the feast is over.

  A MILLION WOMEN ARE YOUR MOTHER

  Saniyya Saleh

  O forest that my body has set on fire,

  come close,

  disregard what can’t be disregarded,

  whisper your hidden rustle

  into my mouth, into my ears,

  and into my pores;

  reveal your rebellion

  and blossom

  in the perforated dome

  of a collapsing body.

  Isn’t winter harsh? Aren’t time and snow,

  rain and storms, too?

  But oh, how beautiful they are

  as they go away.

  I didn’t know that forgetfulness has legs,

  yet it comes and goes like an unruly horse

  waiting for the bronze-colored rose to fall

  from the top of the branches.

  If the rose falls on the horse’s back,

  the horse will fly away with it;

  if it falls between its legs,

  the horse will kick it.

  O forest that has blossomed in my body,

  don’t be afraid.

  I’ve hidden my soul in you

  or between two cracks as strong as armies

  (although armies don’t know us and don’t care).

  Plunge your head into me,

  penetrate me

  until our bones almost intertwine.

  Let us be next to each other,

  interlaced like the heart’s duality.

  Touch me as God would touch the clay

  and I will turn into a human being in a flash.

  How can I escape, Sweetheart,

  when my heart’s fire runs in all directions,

  in speech and in silence,

  so that you may be born a million times

  in ages of greater strangeness.

  O my blond forest, unite your fear

  and mine strongly;

  let your bones enter the tunnel of my bones,

  then pull the remainder of your body in

  and enter.

  There will be long, narrow passages

  in front of you, and Truth lies in the narrowest.

  Take care and don’t forget that you’re going there

  to scream,

  to reject,

  and not to bend.

  Behold, the ghosts of the world are advancing,

  so hide

  and steal a look from the cracks of windows

  or keyholes.

  Whenever a god passes, applaud him

  or climb on the edges of trucks

  and shout: the moon’s blood is from his blood

  and its flesh is from his fabric.

  But when will you come

  so that I may tell you secretly

  who the real god is?

  The harsh rain was singing a military march

  and shooting its bullets at the roots.

  (How were you born in the midst of that fight?)

  O God, command the valley

  to take us to the original fountain,

  and the mountain to take us to the real summit.

  If the great darkness flees from the whip

  and Truth lies flat on the executioner’s floor

  and the alphabet turns into unfair laws

  and the poets turn into dust on the tables,

  I will fold up my time and hide it in my bosom.

  And if I see my shadow, I will think I am crawling

  in order to gnaw on the dry bread of famine.

  But two feet of stone can’t walk.

  Behold, noon is like hard concrete

  and the spears of ice cut through the limbs.

  Souls that taste like bread are crunched by the air.

  A million women are your mother, my little one,

  and they untie the string

  of the horizon for you so that

  death may become temporary, like sleep.

  Let us dig up the slaves and bondsmen,

  and let us bury the masters of hunger;

  and fountains have opened their white mouth

  and sent forth their tragic call.

  (How terrible giving up the soul is!)

  Yet the fountains leave geranium

  and damascene roses in their trace.

  What angry power is it

  that tears out the fetuses from our wombs?

  Let that flood

  weave the bed of our loneliness.

  What will its beast do upon stumbling

&nb
sp; while the winter, like an eagle,

  beats it with its wings?

  In its body are millions of waves,

  a chronic eagerness for the earth,

  while the drowning mariners

  come out of the gates of Time’s water

  with a sharper vision,

  the lines of their ribs visible on their back,

  and they say:

  the forests that have entered the sea

  will bear leaves again

  because their heart does not die.

  Thus, when Time locks its door to everyone,

  I will enter the train of death, pleased;

  I will hold the string of absence and pull it,

  and my imaginary self will come,

  my self that was born of the wombs of mirrors

  with their frightening and obscure words.

  But frightened bodies secrete what will save them,

  and, behold, the door of peace opens

  between Paradise and the Earth.

  Life alone can take us away and return us.

  Death has perished

  and worms have become extinct.

  The human stone is split so that

  new generations will be born.

  As for me,

  I will withhold the eggs of reproduction

  in my womb

  to live thus as virgins,

  so that spring may not be pressed

  by force into the spray of bullets.

  Translated from the Arabic by Issa J. Boullata

  “OH YEAH, BECAUSE YOU COULD CHOOSE NOT TO” FROM NOW FOR THE NORTH

  Emily DeDakis

  This monologue was written as part of Three’s Theatre Company’s production Now for the North in Belfast, Northern Ireland. As of 2019, choosing to end a pregnancy in Northern Ireland is illegal in almost every circumstance.

  I’m babysitting tonight.

  You’re off to the cinema one last time before they tear it down.

  You won’t tell me who your date is—even when I beg:

  You know him, I know you know him, just … lemme see how it goes.

  Fair enough, ok, ok.

  I tell you, you look pretty.

  Wow, Mommy, your dress, she says. She actually gasps. (She’s two.) You fancy the walk so you leave before dinner.

  I run through possibilities in my head while I fix macaroni and cheese:

  That weird bartender with the ’stache? Kyle the Virtuous? Finn? Benji?

  None seem right. I doubt you’d take the punt.

  You’re not picky; you just know yourself.

  After dinner she orchestrates T. Rex attacks on the dollhouse while I do

  the washing up.

  We share melty chocolate buttons & watch the CBeebies bedtime story:

  “The Dinosaur That Pooped a Planet.”

  She looks up at me very solemnly & says, This is amazing.

  You bought her foam letters that stick to the side of the bath.

  I spell silly words: PING. DROOP. MINGER.

  She won’t tip her head back so I can rinse the shampoo. She will not.

  It won’t get in your face if you—look, if you just—

  You’re only making things hard for yourself, girl.

  It’s me saying it, kneeling by the bath, but I hear your mum saying it too—

  The night you told her & she cried down the phone at you.

  You told me right when I came over. I was the first one there.

  You opened cans of G & T & sat staring at yours. Shit, I wasn’t thinking.

  An emergency urban family summit. Gradually everyone arrived:

  Greg & Sam holding hands, looking wise.

  Helen with buns. Flora all righteous fire.

  Ollie late, of course—even for this.

  Sara was in London but Helen got her on FaceTime.

  We’re all here for you.

  Everyone said it at the door, over the shoulder of the hug, like paying a toll.

  No matter what, we all said.

  It was clear pretty quick that everyone meant the same what, called the

  same shot.

  They were Googling, doing the math.

  Someone started a collection right there on the coffee table.

  I saw you stare at the pile of notes & I knew it—I know what you’re like.

  Suddenly I was Ned Stark at a small council meeting, it’s just my mouth

  wouldn’t open.

  It seemed like something you needed to say, that you’d decided.

  For them it’s a given—

  Because you said he was an eejit, weeks ago, just two dates in—

  You unmatched him, deleted him off WhatsApp, blocked him on Insta—

  Because there was nothing to the thing with him & that left you on your

  own again,

  Because of the placards you wrote & the lunch breaks you spent in the street,

  Because you cared enough to be out there

  Surely it’s a given?

  He said it too when you told him, before he demanded the paternity test:

  You talked a great game about being a feminist, didn’t you? And now this.

  Because who in their right mind would choose to alone?

  It’s the kind of thing that happens when you don’t have a choice—

  & she was your choice.

  You named her, on the opening page of a lined spiral-bound notebook—

  your first journal.

  You were twelve. You couldn’t spell but you were already writing to her.

  Because being in love with him never mattered. You already loved her.

  And for all that knowing, all that love, it was still a choice. A hard one.

  You were bricking it. Your doubts were our doubts:

  What’s going to happen? Who’s paying for nappies? How do I keep both

  of us alive? Forever?

  You’re only making things hard for yourself, girl.

  It’s not like any of us could really imagine, not then anyway.

  Even now, I mean, what do I—?

  I don’t always know myself.

  I remember us outside City Hall

  placards made from Sharpies & inside-out cereal boxes

  us adamant at not being forced & railroaded, the other side insisting that

  life is life is life.

  Two kids walked by us—they were seventeen, maybe less—

  One said to the other, What’s happening?

  And the other said, It’s a pro-abortion thing

  And I said, Actually it’s a pro-choice thing

  And both of them were quiet for a second, thinking

  And one said, Oh yeah because you could choose not to have one

  And you said, Exactly.

  It’s never a given, so how could you make that choice for someone else?

  How do you even make that choice?

  [Pause. Distracted for a moment, she taps a rhythm on her belly]

  Sure, you know yourself

  You stay quiet for a second, thinking

  You kneel by a bathtub, &

  I just hope I

  [She smiles & shakes her head, sheepish]

  I dunno.

  FROM THE MILLSTONE

  Margaret Drabble

  It took me some time to realize that I was pregnant: the possibility had of course crossed my mind fairly early on, but I had dismissed it as being too ridiculous and unlikely a symptom of my sense of doom to be worth serious attention. When I was finally obliged to acknowledge my condition, I was for the first time in my life completely at a loss. I remember the moment quite well: I was sitting at my usual desk in the British Museum looking up something on Sir Walter Raleigh, when out of the blue came the sudden suspicion, which hardened instantly as ever into a certainty. I got out my diary and started feverishly checking on dates, which was difficult as I never make a note of anything, let alone of trivial things like the workings of my guts. In the end, however, after much
hard memory work, I sorted it out and convinced myself that it must be so. I sat there, and I could see my hands trembling on the desk. And for the first time the prospect before me seemed so appalling that even I, doom-suspecting and creating as I have always been, could not look at it. It was an unfamiliar sensation, the blankness that occupied my mind instead of the usual profuse images of disaster. I remained in the state for some five minutes before, wearily, I set my imagination to work. What it produced for me was very nasty. Gin, psychiatrists, hospitals, accidents, village maidens drowned in duck ponds, tears, pain, humiliations. Nothing, at that stage, resembling a baby. These shocking forebodings occupied me for a half hour or more, and I began to think that I would have to get up and go, or to go out and have a cup of coffee or something. But it was an hour before my usual time for departure, and I could not do it. I so often wanted not to do my full three hours, and had so often resisted the lure of company or distraction in order to complete them, that now I felt myself compelled to sit there, staring at the poems of Sir Walter Raleigh, in a mockery of attention. Except that after some time I found myself really attending: my mind, bent from its true obsession with what seemed at first intolerable strain, began to revert almost of its own accord to its more accustomed preoccupations, and by the end of the morning I had covered exactly as much ground as I had planned. It gave me much satisfaction, this fact. Much self-satisfaction. And as I walked down the road to meet Lydia for lunch, I discovered another source of satisfaction: now, at least, I would be compelled to see George. I had an excuse, now, for seeing him.

  Later that afternoon I realized that I was going to see George now less than ever. It took some time for the full complexity of the situation to sink in. When I realize the implications of my deceit, it became apparent that I was going to have to keep the whole thing to myself. I could not face the prospect of speculation, anyone’s speculation. So I decided to get on with it by myself as best I could. I have already recounted my ludicrous attempt with the gin: after this I got in touch with a Cambridge friend of mine who had had an abortion, and asked for the address and details, which I obtained. I rang the number once, but it was engaged. After that I went no further. I do not like to look back on those first months, before anyone but me knew what was happening: it seems too much like a nightmare, like a hallucination, and I kept waking up each morning and thinking it must be a dream, the kind of dream that my nonconformist guilt might be expected to project: I even wondered if all the symptoms for which I suffered might not be purely psychological. In the end it was the fear of being made a fool of by my subconscious that drove me to the doctor.