Jesus Lives In A Green Chevette

"It's really an awfully simple
operation, Jig," the man said.
"It's not really an operation at all.
The girl looked at the ground
the table legs rested on.
"I know you wouldn't mind it, Jig.
It's really not anything.
It's just to let the air in."

- "Hills Like White Elephants"
By Ernest Hemingway

Hills Like White Elephants
---Yes---
This is like that. Just like that,
except that there are no hills
and this is not Spain.
There is no train, no absinthe, no
convincing.

Marie ground her foot against
the brake pedal. "Not
an operation at all", just
---something---

She turned onto the old cinder road,
expecting trees and small dapples of sunlight.
There were no dapples, there were no trees,
only the crackle of ash beneath rubber.

One block from the interstate, a small white
sign with simple blue letters
spelled out the directions.
Now she faced the nothern hills,
the green hills, and the baracade.

She pulled her car too close to the post,
and felt the thick nudge of metal against metal,
against her decision, against her natural
intuision. She wound the window down and reached
for the bell. A distant female voice crackled
over the intercom,
"Password..."

"Securing our freedom of choice."

There was no response from the guard-matron,
only a weak and static, electronic buzz
as the gate lifted slowly, lifted
with the weight of all moral dilemma.
As the gate groaned upward
Marie glanced to her right.

The passenger side window was muddy
and oily but she saw the man's face
filling the window of the green Chevette.
He had a dark beard, darker eyes, a greasy
tendency that shook her. He held up a sign.

The Alternative
is LIFE

The painted letters were dripped like blood.
It looked like blood and the man
looked like Jesus.

Jesus Lives
in a green Chevette.
Punches your gut with placards.
Placards are painted in blood and extoll
LIFE
against the right to choose.
Jesus Lives
in a green Chevette
and packs a mean left hook.

At the end of the cinder road was a parking lot,
black tarred and finished. The building
itself looked like any professional suite
of offices. Doctors, lawyers, Indian Chiefs
would make their 9-5 homes here.


There were no clues, no signs, no embarrassing trademarks;
only a simple white sign with blue letters

Clinic

Marie got out of her car and locked the door,
smeared her finger through the thick coat
of mud and stains. Through the oily black
of indecision and moral dilemma, she saw
Jesus in the green Chevette. The placard,
the bloody words. She felt the punch
of Jesus

Jesus in his green
Chevette

She felt the thick rope of nausea tighten
and knot in her gut. She lowered her head
and walked slowly, one foot
in front of the other,
eyes down.

The doors were glass, bluish-green
and smeared with finger prints. Oily
-dirty reminders of everyone
who passed. All of the women
who faced their right to choose
and measured it against the words
of Jesus.

Jesus in his green Chevette.
Jesus with the bloody placard.
Jesus with his Christian ethic,
a man who never faced or knew
the choice. Who never understood
the right to choose.

Marie pushed the buzzer slowly.
The dim hum of electric response
was followed by two quick clicks.
She pulled the right facing door
towards her, mindful of finger prints,
mindful of two sides; two doors,
both opening
IN.

 

 

First Trimester Break

Two Doors

One glassy Finger-printed
Smudged Opens

In

to air a room as brisk
and cold as it is stainless. Steel
with the oily scent of rubber
Six-teen-ish girls prop
and ping around the room.
Sit deep and try to hide
in stained, less-steel
chairs. They form aisles
with rows of eyes and stare
like doe from pulp-fixed folds.
They press into stapled shadows,
into narrow holes where paper
breaks and meets
more paper.
More xerox-scented
More gray
Paper

Blue pens
scratchscratchscratch

She writes her name as
Amy and looks away.
Lowers silvered eyes
past white; past starched, past
pastel-streaked canvas. Soothing
canvas of calm. Non-bleeding
color-on-canvas

Balm
scratchscratchscratch
Address
(illegible)

(DOB)
5 years-6 months Prior
Address

-same as above-
(illegible)
scratchscratchscratch

Girls hold
Close to significant
others' arms that reach
to hold and fail; in failing

Fold.
Some giggle.
Some pop
their fruity gum.
Some talk
about what
When this is
-Over-
Some cry.
Some bleed.
But no one
leaves.

A fifty-fat, fish-woman
calls the roll of six-
teen-ish names and braces
the second pulp-wooded door.
She pushes blue-veined
fingers against red
glasses. Looks away
until they pass
Quiet
Most mouths
Most eyes
down
White rubber soles squeal
against asbestos-gray. Squeak
and leave no mark. No sign
of passing
Girls squeak and squeal
as the door behind
sucks
closed on the room
where more girls wait; A steel
plated room of two
doors
Both Opening

In

to doors.

 

The Red Marring Of Dora Blue

"The lights in the room were sickly green.
I remember the pallor, the sheen on starch.
I remember the dark-haired woman,
her eyes hollowed by fluorescent shadows.
I remember sitting in front of her, letting
her words and softened-margarine demeanor
stir me into the batter of positive decision
and positive action.

I remember I remember I remember..."

Dora never told her story easily. She stood,
crunching her shoulders, weeding her memories
with incessant hands. She stood and let
the guilt pour from her veins. She stood
and filled the room with it, leaving
none of us unwashed. She stood
until she finished and, when she finished,
we cried. It was the day of the flood.
This is something. I remember.
The rest belongs to Dora. My friend Dora,
who bears the guilt, the hash marks
of the marred.

"I remember the badge on her chest. The same
blue letters, the same white placard. I remember
following her and her own sweetened, palatable
logic. She asked me if I had 'considered
all of the options', all of the 'alternatives'.
I nodded. She asked me if I understood
'The Procedure' and I nodded again.

She asked me if I saw the man outside, the one
in the green Chevette and if he 'bothered me'.
I nodded and then-quickly-shook my head.

'I remember. He looked like Jesus.
He had a sign and it was red.
Like blood, yes, like blood.
No-he didn't bother me but I remember,
he looked like Jesus. Jesus
in a green Chevette.
I do remember but no
he didn't bother me.'

She scribbled notes and then she weighed me,
took my pulse, nodded and opened, yet another,
door. I remember,
All of the doors opened 'IN'
and once you were 'IN',
there was no out.

She told me to disrobe and cover myself
with 'this', a blue gown to be left open
in the front. She showed me how to
position my feet in the stirrups, how to
let my knees fall apart.

How-to How-to How-to
She could have written the book on
'How-to'

I climbed, half-covered in traditional blues.
Followed her instructions of 'How-to'
and put my feet up, letting my knees fall
naturally and unnaturally against my nature.

I remember the smell of the room,
the scent of rubber, the stainless gleam
that hung from varied instruments
of modern medicine. The shadows of things
I knew and more I didn't. I remember
the white-sheeted covering of the machine.

The vacuum machine. The machine that would.
The machine that could. I closed my eyes.
There were red stains, like blood, inside.

She held my arm tight between her studied
fingers and I felt the blue and purple rise
to the surface beneath her grip. I felt
the pressure and then the sting. I felt
the heat of running up and pinched my eyes
tighter. The red inside only deepened.

I wanted to drift, to relax,
to fade into the 'Twilight Sleep'
they fed me. I couldn't. I lay there,
still beneath the surgical blue sheet.
I laid and felt the decision of death
stalk and cover me in pukish stench.
I lay as if asleep; no rod or staff,
no serpent of comfort to me. I lay
until the nausea rocked through me.

She brought a silvery pan and held
my head. She smoothed my hair.
She softened her margarine voice
a little more and told me
that I'd be under soon and then
she left the room.

My head was filled with the buzz, filled
with the dizzying scent of something
thick, cherry syrup thick. I thought
of almonds, almonds and arsenic.
I closed my eyes and smelled the red,
watched as the centrifugal parade of blood-
stains swallowed the last of the light.

I was supposed to be asleep.
In truth, I had never been
more awake.

The doctor led with two new nurses following.
The door opened and sucked closed. There
was the squeak of rubber soles against asbestos,
the squeal of metal wheels in need of grease.
There was an overwhelming waft of gardenia
mixing with the cherry-flavored, arsenic scent
of red in the room. The woman breathed over me
and her breath was that of peppermint gum.
She breathed over me, clamped my wrist
between her fingers and spoke something like,

'Yes. She's under.'

The doctor was quiet and well out of radar range
and I peeked from my half-closed eyes.

He was darkish. Golden. Indian.
He had a mustache and a kind face. I thought
of Ghandi and Deepak Chopra. I thought
of Karma and how we are led. I felt
for the separation of flesh and spirit.

This is merely flesh, not spirit.
I thought of Karma and Fate
when Doctor Ghandi-Chopra wound
his warm, dark-golden hands around my ankles
and yanked me with the force of ten
to the proper position. I screamed
and he filled the room with loud
recriminations and acrimony.

'This Patient Is Supposed To Be
ASLEEP'

The lights in the room spun to sickly green
and all of the doors, sucked closed,
led further

'IN'"

 

The Final Flush Of The Light Brigade
-What's Done Is Done-

The final door that opened in,
opened to a room of dimmed,
overhead lights, small chipped tables,
and hard-worn over-stuffed chairs.
The carpet was a dirty shade of gold,
threaded in places, bare
in the path to the nurses station.

You check into the room to rest.
There's coffee, orange juice and cookies.
There's also the same pervasive scent of rubber.
The same cutting edges of thick, cherry syrup.
The stainless steel of disinfectant. Mostly
there is the scent of blood, of pooling
arsenic, of the deed.

What's done is done.

Another dark-haired, fish-eyed nurse
hovered in the corner, preened her desk
and eyed the girls with something
like disgust. Something that told you
she'd rather be watching the soaps
than perching to watch the girls
in the wake of vomit.

What's done is done.

This is the coming out.
The wake from anesthesia.
The debut of the sting of a raw
and empty womb. For some girls
this is the beginning,
their own fresh morning. For others,
the wake. The sackcloth and ash.
The done deed that carries its own
weight of indiscretion, its own
retching song that fills out to the corners.

What's done is done.

Jill pushed her hair from her face.
She felt pale and washed, cold and sweaty.
Felt the sting of raw guts that gripped,
tensed, and rushed in the red of waking.
She felt dizzy and undone. Less connected
to the reality that led her to make
the choice. Led her to

What's done is done.

She laid her hands across her still,
rounded belly and her thoughts moved
round to her son. Her living son. She thought
about the what-ifs of then but left them
drop. To bear the imagination was too much.
To bear the aftermath of her husband's ferocity
was, at this time, more than enough.

What's done is done.

But then it's never really done.
Her husband was an alcoholic. He was impotent.
For more than 534 days (and nights) her husband
assumed his roll with the bottle.
There were no nights alone together, no shared
intimacy. There was only the passing of shadows,
shouts, and one day into the other. That was-
until 2 1/2 months ago.

Mike came home after a long day and two nights
of hard boozing. His eyes were red and his anger
was shot in lines that tensed between his eyes.
She lay in their bed and held her breath.
She listened to his heavy feet on the stairs.
Tracked his movements by the vibrations
through the walls.

He was standing in the doorway, leaning forward
and back from jamb to jamb. He was reeling
and she tucked her head down, deeper
beneath the blankets. Her movements were so
small, so tight. Almost imperceptible.

She felt safe. Sleeping silence, playing
dead, was usually her best defense and
she played it out to the usual script.
She waited for his anger to boil and break.
Waited for the hurl of his slurred paregoric.
Waited for the obscene delirium
to be delivered and to pass.
She waited too long.

He crossed the room with belching, heavy steps
and tore back the blankets. She lay there
shivering, trying to tuck herself into a small
round ball. She bristled her thoughts
like spines of the porcupine and hoped
that the jagged needles would warn him off.
She hoped

until he pulled her foot. Yanked her
with the force of ten, into position, flat
on the bed. He held her down with his weight,
pressed his wiggly-jiggly excuse for a cock
between her legs. He pressed and pressed
harder, clamped his hand around her neck.

He pressed until he came and the wet, white
cum was lather between her legs. Until
there was nothing left but-

What's done was done.

She lay silent for almost an hour. Still.
Barely breathing. She felt the bones of her neck
expand and pop. She felt her nerves unravel
and she felt the raw edges of piercing hate.
If she had been thinking of leaving,
she was sure of it now. She was sure

What's done was definitely done.

Some two months later, she woke feeling full
and achy inside. She woke with the pinch
and trembling of morning sickness. She woke
and dropped her head over the commode, watched
her reflection swim in the yellow bile.
She flushed the toilet along with any hope
that this would pass easily and she shivered.
The tile was cold under her feet but
her intentions were colder, fueled
by nitrous loathing, further frosted by

What's done is done
That afternoon, she made an appointment.

Now she sat bearing the weight, reliving
the past 3 years of marriage to Mike.
She relived the pain and agony, and swallowed
the lumps of hate with handfuls of sorrow.

The door creaked and opened
IN
Another girl was being led to the chair beside her.
Jill listened while the nurse recited
the same stale litany of coffee & orange juice
instruction. The same notes of gray-paper,
clinical advice
"What To Expect Following 'The Procedure'".

The new girl disregarded the folds of paper
into paper, into more paper. She disregarded
the light and held her head in her hands.
"She's so pale", thought Jill.
"And so drawn."
She wanted to lay her hand on the other girl's
shoulder. Wanted to let her know,
"Everything's gonna' be alright."
Wanted her to feel the passing, to know

What's done is done.

The sullen corner-nurse plodded across the room
and made a ritual of checking her watch against
the time, stamped in red, and the doctor's
tattered scrawl in the corner of Jill's papers.
She made a ritual of drawing breath,
of patting Jill's shoulder and said,
"If you feel alright now, you can go."
But the lines that creased her face spoke loudly of
"Time's up. Get out."
Jill didn't waste time in measuring semantics.
She thought about Jesus
living in his green Chevette.
She thought about choices and
the right to choose.
For a shattered second,
she thought about God and Hate
but

What's done is done.

The last door that opened
IN
was finally leading
OUT.