Ten Thousand Sparrows III Deliberate

We eleven,
we were cold as soldiers, professionals
in good standing with good jobs,
knowing the range and price of free will –
straight as ship masts,
straight as pitched white pine.
Rushed from room to room – deliberate,
silent with socked feet.

Convinced ourselves that the termination
was necessary.
No one spoke in unwanted terms,
mentioned reasons, justifications, failures –
there was only a gray pitch that
melted from the sky, hung from the walls,
pooled by our padded feet.
It would settle inside us,
sealing unfinished parts.

The rooms smelled of bodies
well used and machinery,
cold and full of souls –
scents that would lay in the
back of my throat well after,
scents that did not beckon.

There alone that day, I would
have no anesthesia.
I’d watch a yellow daisy taped to
a second hand go the clock round –
three times, three minutes.
The doctor talking me through
each painful stage –
the calm and kind procedure,
the calm and kind professionals.

The sealant, the pitch gave no soundness
to our bodies or to the act
only a translucent gray, like clouds,
like tears of angels.

The seraph, with a handful of fire,
burned its way through me, collected
my child’s soul to return it to heaven.
It was all I had asked for.

There would be times after this,
when I would be afraid of my dreams,
the monsters that lay claim to life –
questioning if I could have been
less determined, less professional.