How safe is abortion?

Years ago I did an informal study of the language associated with the debate over abortion.

At that time, forty years ago, both sides of the debate referred to “the contents of the uterus” as babies.

This is indicting.

In the 1970s we knew and articulated a simple fact:  the contents of the uterus during a pregnancy include at least one human being.

I say all of this because…

Socrates is immortal.

I know, seeming non-sequitur as well as a bit of a hijacked syllogism. But if you think about it, that is exactly what abortion apologetics is about–hijacked syllogisms.

Track with me here.

The original and better known Socratic syllogisms run like this:

1. All men are x

2. Socrates is a man

3. Therefore Socrates is x

X could be mortal, animal, sentient, mammalian…

You get the idea…

But what if men were immortal?  Then Socrates would be immortal.  His life would be defined by more than the hemlock, the sham trial, the bad marriage, the stopped heart.  He would be out there somewhere, forever, thinking, feeling, real forever.

So what does that have to do with the safety of abortion?

What if we substitute human fetus for Socrates or men?

1. All human fetuses are…

Half of all abortion patients die.  Those patients are the children of the other half of the patients.

Anyone who says abortion is safer than giving birth simply has the math terribly wrong.

Imagine if this math applied to all medical appointments: half of the people who went to the doctor on any day would not only not leave the clinic alive, they also could have their remains given to research concerns for money.

Still, what does that have to do with Socrates being immortal?

If Socrates is immortal

Then Someone or Thing has made him so.

A Word perhaps, an eternal Word.

Born into poverty, at risk of being the victim of infanticide, not because of who he was right then but because of who he would be…

Who they would be…the millions of would-be people.

Who like, Socrates, deserve true logic, not faulty syllogism.

You and me on the old back porch

 In an already messy old house

I try to find a place to stash my anger

The beat-up old chest?

Grandma’s dresser?

Each place I go I feel your loss

The way a tall boy once held a short girl at arm’s length

As she beat at the air with rage and sorrow

Maybe it is the air that is the problem…

Not enough oxygen?

The matrix of maternal affection somehow dislodged by 

Something?

Something missing.

It is as though the lost girls had become those things-

A trunk, a cup, a worn blanket

Trapped in closets 

…in the minds of monsters

The old childhood nightmare turned on its head-

The child in the closet 

The mother, the monster

Shaking its imaginary head

“Even I could not 

Would not

Do something so unspeakable 

To a human child.”

Grace Packer, death by adoption?

When I was a foster parent in Beaver, PA in the late 1990s I was devastated to uncover adoptions going on in contravention of law and decency.

Some of the cases were covered by The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and 48 Hours.  The ACLU sued the county. 

The state did nothing.

One wonders if Grace Parker and her birth family were victims of the same kind of nefarious adoption scheme?

Horrible to think that the serious, maybe illegal actions of child welfare agencies are thoroughly shielded by confidentiality laws.

Even more horrible to think that Sara Packer may have used the federal money given to her to provide for Grace to buy the cat litter they used to disguise her murder.

Real Mom

i wrote it deliberately 

the way it has been now to me

for over 20 years

and has been to the created

Universe

For as long as He can remember

Or rather just since that unfortunate incident in the Garden

“Biological mother” might have always been our deplorable undoing-

The willful choice

To pick death over Real Mom

Seems somewhat abstruse and vaguely epistemological 

Until I tell you about the feral 

cats of Universal City

one of whom, just a wee thing

had words with me last night

Sure, they were just 

plaintive and insistent 

Mewings in the parking lot

But we both know it was more than that

It was all of them

Hidden in the margins

Rightfully afraid of the humans who trashed the Garden

Looking for Real Mom

And yet so cold, so alone

so afraid to come home.

Lost girl

it is the details you wish

To unhear, unread, undo

the window into terrible

Opened by her own

biological mother 

Who then had the wherewithal to

Shower

After she had baptized the child

The spun-glass-irretrievable little girl

In pain and blood 

When she should have plaited

Flowers in her hair.

Modern Ghost

at the edge of the edge of the silver dance 

the stuff of space becomes so attenuated that

a single floating atom

cannot see the ghost mama

(because there is, by definition, nothing there)

Yet she is.

Curled around her lone, fetal darling

So much smaller than a human

blastocyst 

Just a nucleus, protons, the usual electrons 

Would be panicky lonely

Except for the unseen but still 

so present 

Modern ghost.

Sunshine

having lost the ancient word for fire, underestimate it into neat concentric squares folded, shelved and forgotten next to ugly Christmas sweaters, baby pictures, and odd clay art projects of now-adult progeny

Neglect means nothing to it, coiled, implacable, unfazed by short and mortal attention spans

Let the last leaf fall but…

Do not neglect the sun

Content for now to burn

At a safe distance

Until the day it will unhinge from invisible moorings and float

Balloon-like Beauty towards us

Suddenly, immaculately attentive

To this nakedness before impending fire.


Everyday Christmas

Crowded city, lonely manger

Tired little mama so close 

to the house of bread

You tell me the story of

tokens we substitute for transubstantiation 

Exchanging trinkets for the

Stuff of life (everlasting)

or looking for the little clues-

“The ones who still hold on”

So very far from home

He knows you

try to pull a fast one

Child with the big words

In his eyes

Calls your bluff

I know you love Christmas!

Light is no ordinary word when spoken 

In the dark

Commanding songs of rescue from the sleep-deprived

Who ponder why

Gold…frankincense…myrrh

gifts for the

Master-builder

Who makes a transom from a cross.

Empty Your Pockets

What we saw was 

the pudgy placeholder for the law

In his uniform, high alert

gun drawn at the suspects

Through the bullhorn they hear the same grim warnings:

Put your hands up

Don’t turn around

Walk  slowly to me

Pantomime of imminent demise 

The laws of physics make the same demands:

Put your hands up…don’t turn around…walk slowly to

The pantomime of imminent demise

Twenty years ago the doctors never read me

The Miranda Rights of motherhood

About the presence or absence of DNA

Arms, feet, a face on the ultrasound they never let me see

Swimming in the dark

Pebbles with new names

Ask God for answers

Hands up…don’t turn around…walk back…

Was this child real enough?

He prophesies 

children from stones

Not unlike dragon teeth

Heart pierced through

So we can all come home

By nightfall.