I don’t believe in Hell
This is a poem about abortion rights.
I don’t believe in hell,
but I’ve got an idea of what it might be.
Languishing orphans in a Romanian cage,
sitting in urine,
dying of AIDS.
The panopticon gaze on missed menses,
or visitor in the night,
his kindly wife.
Every anomaly is an invitation
Hell is the body
prone and pried open for all to see.
It is emergency room corpses,
sepsis, and secrets.
Deadly exorcisms of rape and incest.
Hell is hot like Alabama
or cold like the hands of a priest,
clutching the wealth of genocide gold
and clasping tradition like a rosary of bones.
Hell is a landscape where a thousand wombs bloom,
sprouting babies, soldiers, and beggars
each doomed to die ravaged and poor
Because life is a weapon
of wealth and