after Oliver de la Paz 

1. Do you feel reluctant to talk about the subject of abortion?

In the center of the ceiling a marigold weeps

or perhaps it’s an old chandelier.

Inside, there’s an interior glow,

shards illuminated in violet-pink 

and layers of peeling gold leaf. 

Such minds at night unfold.

2. Do you feel guilt or sorrow when discussing your own abortion?

The cabbage is a blue rose, 

an alchemical strip show. They scream 

when dragged from the earth

only to find themselves plunged into boiling water. 

The narrative unscrolls from cells

of what-ifs and hourglass hopes. 

3. Have you found yourself either avoiding relationships or becoming 

overly dependent in them since the abortion?

If I could unhinge myself from myself,

attach to bookshelves, sever

my tongue, I would watch

as it grew back, rejuvenated

and ready to speak.

4. Do you have lingering feelings of resentment toward people involved 

in your abortion (Perhaps the baby’s father or your parents)?

One must be careful what one takes 

when one turns away forever: 

a Tuareg scarf, two photographs,

untamed thoughts that curse, then lift—

occasionally yes, though mostly not. 

5. Do you tend to think of your life in terms of “before” and “after” the 

abortion?

Too scared to speak my name—

not etherized upon the table—

I wore silver stirrups, blue wrap-around globe.

The young nurse and I held hands—

you’re doing great, she cooed. 

I remained awake, awakened.

6. Have you felt a vague sort of emptiness, a deep sense of loss, or had 

prolonged periods of depression?

The sky no longer speaks to me directly—

and the beautiful man? 

He has dropped through the floorboards

though sometimes he answers emails: 

•Yes, our family has survived the Paris bombings.

•Sincere condolences on your new president.

7. Do you sometimes have nightmares, flashbacks, or hallucinations 

relating to the abortion?

Never mind, I tell myself, it is only a nightmare. 

But then I remember I’ve barely gone to bed at all.

Then thirty years had passed, then thirty-one.

8. Have you begun or increased use of drugs or alcohol since the 

abortion, or do you have an eating disorder?

The fog tastes sweet, then sour;

identity translates to forged glamour—

strong doses of celibacy taken regularly.  

9. Did your relationship to, or concept of ‘God’, or ‘Karma’, or ‘Fate’ 

change after your abortion?

If my own voice falters, tell them

I tried not to live inside the clock

or under the skin of pomegranates.

Does anyone escape her own story—

head-on collision, nor’easter, earthquake,

the racist seeding of our country?

10. Has your self-concept or self-esteem changed since your abortion?

Once I abandoned my car in a forest of red cedar,

let it tumble down the mountain 

precipice by itself. In the next diorama there’s a friend 

at the wheel and she urges, let’s go on;

believe in yourself like a paint color, an infant’s song.

11. Are you bothered by certain sounds like machinery that makes 

loud noises? 

Coffee grinders, vacuum cleaners,

sewing machines.

Also: truck backfires, sparklers,

the sharp scrape of chair legs—

gunfire overhead, handsaws, the evening

news. Aren’t you?

12. Is there anything you would like to ask?

Why does Google Maps have blind spots;

for example, the city of Zinder, Niger? 

Is it possible for one person to photograph the world—

to understand this bewilderment of light?