When Will It Stop Bleeding?

I don’t usually write much poetry. But very occasionally, I feel inspired to write some. This is what I wrote today. And I am going to be extremely brave and share it with you.


When will it stop bleeding?


A pain-filled room
littered with tears
and guilt-filled tissues
huddled in groups below each chair.
Misery loves company.


The women speak
with choking sobs
and folded arms
and hands that clench and fidget
and cover their faces,
to hide their shame.


Their words are not words
but poison-tipped daggers
piercing all who listen
to the womb.


Their right, they said.
A simple procedure.
No need to ruin your life.


Tell that to the women
who cry,
not silently, softly,
like a lady in mourning,
but loudly, angrily,
violently, uncontrollably.
The cries of a woman
who not only lost her child,
but could have saved it.


A tissue seems so inadequate.
Somebody pass her an exorcist.


When the stories are told
and the tears are shed
and the shame uncovered,
they will go home,
Empty.


But their wounds will remain.
Not scars
for they never really heal,
but bleed afresh
with each new knock to their motherhood.


This is no fresh, bright red blood
But dark, clotted, almost brown blood.
(Is that a blood clot or my baby?)


These are the cries of woman with a choice,
unable to change their decision
once they made it.
(You live with it forever, you know.)


These are the cries of women with dead children,
of graves with no gravestones,
of grief with no sympathy,
of guilt with no understanding.


These are the cries of empowered women,
feeling helpless.

(Nurse, something is wrong.
I had a procedure.
I can’t stop bleeding.
There are so many blood clots.
And I think I saw my baby.)


(Nothing is wrong.
The baby is gone.
The bleeding is normal.
The blood clots are normal.
It will stop in about three weeks.)


(But Nurse, when will it stop bleeding.
When will it really stop bleeding?)