Personal Matters by ajayi ajamu

Personal Matters

Ajayi Ajamu

Advanced Poetry 4920 Michelle J. Pinkard 18 November 2019

Forward I want to examine women’s bodies, moreso women’s bodies how they relate to abortion rights, both from the standpoint of politics but also how personal the descision to have an abortion. The decision to have an abortion is more than just a health choice, or a personal choice for women, it is a debate about whether or not women deserve the right to choose at all. The poems in this book are extremely person, because abortion is a personal choice, and because a woman writing about abortion is personal, and emotional. Although the topic of these poems is abortion, I find myself talking a lot about rape, sexual abuse, molestation, and other acts of abuse women live through. One cannot talk about women's bodies without talking about what else happens to women’s bodies, consentual or not. Ultimately the political discussion around abortion is the discussion about whether women’s bodies are anything outside of a political battle ground. Abortion’s make people uncomfortable, whether they have had one, or whether they are against them, because women’s bodies are constantly subject to critizism and debate. Women’s bodies, especially women’s expressions of sexuality, is always demonized and made into a taboo topic.

Table of Contents ● How Do You “Define” ● Bed ● Evening Sacrifice ● I Don’t Wear Pretty Dresses Anymore ● Personal ● Lucky ● Amen

a·bor·tion /əˈbôrSH(ə)n/ noun 1. the deliberate termination of a human pregnancy, most often performed during the first 28 weeks of pregnancy. deliberate, i chose this, my body walked slowly into fluorescent lighting and the smell of latex gloves snapping over skin, the word Abortion sticks in throats, dry, painful like swallowing cotton, a big secret fighting up, hushed up, cleaned up, locked away but like blood, thick clotted seeping through cotton sheets emotion distorts, what was once medical procedure leaves a stain Abortion more than the termination, more than paper gowns, pissing in cups or blood tests Abortion sitting in doctors offices with everything shaking, a dirty little secret, tucked in back pockets, or pushed to the bottom of bathroom trash cans Abortion "but baby it doesn't feel the same." months of waiting, picking your fingers raw, biting lip, drawing blood, hands instinctively touching stomachs a walking morgue, a cemetery for others carelessness

Abortion rarely talked about in the proper context, rarely researched without personal biases, rarely embraced but performed so often. in back alleys, on kitchen floors with hangers and peroxide, biting on towels and pressing, up and up and up and up. digging desperately for a second chance.

Bed pull my body off these sheets smells like piss and sweat, blood, shit and worry, and my stomach feels raw, acid churning like a storm below the surface, phone silenced, canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t look canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t answer the questions, or explain where i am between my legs swollen and aching how long can i stay in this bed, this room with the door locked, and curtains drawn how long can i piss in buckets, curl my body into the fetal position and hear my spine crack and pop how long will this take? stare at the ceiling clench the towel beneath me how do i explain why do i have to explain that my pockets are empty and having life in my hands life, dug out from between my legs, get rid of all that was unwanted unplanned for found this bed, in a dark part of town, crumpled bills and eyes cast down, the blood cakes the back of my school uniform, as trembling hands try to complete worksheets i lay my head down on tear soaked pillows, legs open to be butchered, bite down on hickory sticks the tension hanging heavy like grapes, like i swallowed the moon full moon, dark, and empty close the curtains, dump the bucket, and sleep

Evening Sacrifice my favorite part is the new baby smell, sweet like lavender, warm, melting but not overbearing he didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t smell like that, skin translucent, blue veins and purple spots like bruises on ripe fruit he smelled like hand sanitizer, like being careful, placed in the incubator and his mother, leaning desperately to watch him asked me to give him a hat, baby blue matched his skin, brought out the purple rings around his closed eyes, he was the size of a pear squirming as his undeveloped lungs struggled and he twitched, and tried to understand if this is what life is, what life is supposed to be like i had never seen anything so small bones, undeveloped, pressing against rice paper skin and fingers scratching, flexing i was there, in the room, shifting from foot to foot, unable to look at the mother, unable to look at the Father, Father said, in a voice loud to drown out the beeping machines, the rush of bodies, touching the baby, but unable to look at him, he said, this was gods will, and i bit my tongue and swallowed blood i was there when his wife, Karen Garver Santorum, signed his birth certificate

Gabriel Santorum, in curvy cursive letters with dots over the eyes were still closed and i couldn’t leave, fussed around the incubator, played with wires, i was there in the room for two hours while the machine beeped and Gabriel kept getting bluer, i was there in the room when Karen Garver Santorum started reading passages from the bible, there as her bottom lip trembled and she read louder, over the beeping machines, and the scuff of shoes on the white linoleum, Gabriel’s lips turned blue and i wanted her to look at him, i wanted her to stop reading, i wanted him to stop flipping through the newspaper i wanted someone to look at him, i was there when the twiglike limbs stopped their erratic twitching, when the machines stopped beeping, when Karen stopped reading, and the only sound was the crinkle of newspaper pages turning i was there in the room when she climbed out of bed ignoring her body reacting to trauma, the blood so thick it’s black running down her pale thighs, smeared across the back of her gown, was there when she picked him up out the incubator, cradling his head, what a good Mother, she’s done this before pressing his body, against her chest and humming,

there when she asked to swaddle him, there as Rick Santorum himself repacked her bag, there as Karen Garver Santorum dressed Gabriel Santorum in a blue onesie, a blue hat, and wrapped him gently in a blue blanket i was there, i was there when they said they were taking Gabriel, angel now holding white lilies against his concave chest, home to meet his brother and sister, home to deliver the message, he said. this is the will of the Father

I Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Wear Pretty Dresses Anymore 11 years old, mommy says im a woman now running down my thighs the color of melted popsicles ruins all my summer dresses, matching ribbons, my tummy hurts he could smell it, warm, like iron and salt, made his mouth water

11 years old, the year of things coming out of me, sticky, the smell of sour yogurt pooling on my floral bed sheets, cartoon network, blue lighting and the door creaking open, his glasses reflecting the faces of Disney characters, tongue wetting his dry lips and the click of the lock behind him my eyes squeezing shut as the covers are pulled off, slow, heavy breathing and the pounding in my ears he said it was pink, strawberry starburst, fresh like the flowers in spring time 11 years old, the year i stared at the glow in the dark stars on my ceiling, the year i gave up my body every night when mommy was asleep when his skin started to crawl he would come and relieve the burning, quench the thirst “let’s watch a disney channel movie” and i stopped wearing underwear to bed, i stopped jumping when the lock clicked, i learned what faces made him happy, made him done quicker the year mommy told me i had the devil inside me, at night i dreamt of my baby dolls body crawling out from between my twig like legs i watched as it came out hands first reaching with soft silicone fists on my sheets, what spilled out of me wasn’t blood pink and sticky like melted starburst, melted crayons waxy and impossible to wash away

11 years old, cold doctors office, snap of blue gloves over hands, open your legs, does it hurt when i press here? Doctor stuttering â&#x20AC;&#x153;are you sexually active?â&#x20AC;? no. inactive . i lay there, make my face a mask of innocence he likes when i pout during, likes my face puckered in pain my legs too short to reach the stirrups, peeing in cups 11 years old, the year of opening legs, fingers prodding inside and the knowing glances shared between adults. 11yrs old the year of ken dolls, the non threatening smoothness between his legs his arms formed straight unable to bend strangle, or cover my mouth to silence my screams 11 years old, doctor gave me pills and my mother a prescription for xanax i sat bleeding on a towel for two days, and she told me, between sips from a bottle with a red label, that between my legs was a cemetery she said between my legs was hellfire and damnation, she said my body was rot and doors kicked in, stolen furniture, and piss soaked mattresses she told me not to touch. she told me no one will visit 11 years old and the fruit has spoiled before it ripened, spilling drawing flies, gnats, ants following and getting stuck in the mess run down my thighs it ruins all my pretty dresses

Personal poetry is supposed to be sweetness not the pages of my diary placed on display, under microscopes or subject to constructive criticism poetry should be understood immediately, require no deeper examination, universal, inclusive poetry should leave no one out the texts messages i reread before bed each night are not poetry or the sound of familiar voices warming me inside and out, or the person i try to recreate in the hands of each man wanting to see what velvet feels like poetry is supposed to be flowers chocolate and candles, bubbles and lavender, or maybe poetry is the aftermath is body kneeling four AM on bathroom tiles, clotting bright red, dark black running down my thighs pooling under my knees smearing portraits across what was once lily white, stained and spotted poetry is confusing metaphors, painting a very abstract picture, too textured, the colors blending into a nauseating brown poetry hands and knees, convulsing, heaving bitterness into a freshly bleached toilet bowl bone churning against bone, contraction, swollen on the inside, sore, tender to the touch

they still touch a cold loneliness settling in my bones, shameful poetry an apology, to my body, to my baby, to the man i swallowed whole in an attempt to curb the appetite, the need, craving for some kind of intimacy a sweetness to wash out the taste of bile intimacy that becomes me on my back, me looking at ceilings me either fabricating reactions or stifling tears poetry expired condoms hidden in my closet poetry writing my name phonetically on doctors forms, standing when the nurse opens the door and stutters, squints at clipboards searching for something properly assimilated something she can pronounce poetry too personal, exposing the wound to open air and having an audience watch it scab over, to cringe or gag at the reality poetry

discomfort, spine cracking and hips stiff talking with a sore throat and convincing myself it’s love and i’m sorry if the metaphors are too confusing, if the rhythm, awkward, hits your ears like a train poetry is fire ants crawling slow up your body and the sting left behind, or the doctor digging somewhat mercilessly between your thighs, or the repeated grunts poetry uncomfortable, because it’s true, uncomfortable, because it happened to me, write about it because it is still happening and that’s what makes it poetry

Lucky Dear Female Doctor, you asked, “are you trying to get pregnant?” protection, layer of latex between, stop the swap of fluids, protection, prevention is Key posters all around my head like a halo of good advice that i should have taken. i shouldn’t be here, i should’ve kept my legs closed, kept the door closed, kept my phone off, kept myself… to myself “why didn’t you use a condom?” You. my fault, my decision, my mistake. consequences. on my shoulders. look what You did. this is what happens. “i was too drunk to notice.” and the conversation shifts to consent. “he said they don’t feel the same.” and the conversation shifts to common sense. my fault. my decision. my mistake. my body not mine anymore, now forgien and stiff; uncomfortable, claustrophobic. you patted my knee the touch of misplaced tenderness made me more anxious, heart beating fast, leg bouncing in a hectic rhythm you’re fine, you're fine. It’s all gonna be

“fine” you said, “you got lucky this time, but next time use protection.” passed me a handful of brightly colored better choices, like candy for Adults, the sound of their wrappers breaks through the silence i shove them in my purse but my hands shake so bad i drop some. clamber off the crinkled paper, mumble an apology, you watch concerned eyes, like you want to ask the question but i know you wont. when does doctor patient confidentiality go too far? is it if you ask if he gets me drunk each time, asks how old, how long have i know him, how often, am i okay. time to go home, go to work, go to school pretend everything is fine because it is. i got lucky this time, no baby. “no baby, no. i don’t want too, not without-” protection. “no baby. that hurts. no” baby. i got lucky this time. thank you, for being the only one who knew. i’m sorry i was late the bus is never on time couldn’t ask for a ride and i doubt you can pay for abortions with TSU DB and the last thing i wanna do is prove my mom right about me

and sorry i didn’t answer when you called out the door i don't go by that name anymore. and you’ll see me again cause i’m not good at refusing bottles, drinks mixed in coke cans or hands on thighs, or wolf in sheep's clothing crooning “c’mon baby, open your legs” validation. Sincerely, Patient #12

Amen

and let the people say, Amen congregated outside planned parenthood clinics, shouting Bible verses, God's personal cheerleaders, self righteous, holy self appointed Psalms 127:3-5 “Children are a heritage from the LORD, offspring a reward from him.” psalms

sweating, slippery holding clipboards, red pens,filling out paperwork with red pens, red fingers, pulsing tender flesh soft, and vulnerable and let the doctors say Amen gloves, stethoscopes, and small plastic cups with screw on lids, tissue paper sanitizing the scene, blocking bacteria and the trembling lips of women saying prayers and let those sinning mouths say a man voice booming like thunder, loud drowned out her innocence, left nothing behind no olive branch of salvation nothing else will grow here a man deciding her fate, spreading her legs, her on her back, and the cycle repeats itself a man laid her down with thighs open, eyes glazed over staring at fluorescent lighting looking for the moment, waiting for the ceiling to break open, for the floor to open up and swallow her whole to pull her under like the signs outside read and let the silence say, the quietness that followed, the hush of the crowd as she walked out the clinic doors, the still air surrounding her at the bus stop let the impending misplaced thoughts of eternal damnation say Amen

About The Author

Ajayi is a 22 year old English major born and partially raised in Nashville Tennessee. She has been writing poetry, spoken word, since she was 9 or 10, and performed extremely personal monologues starting at 11 years old, and ending at 18. Needless to say, Ajayi has a lot of experience writing, and because of that has a very specific writing style and a very developed voice in her writing. Ajayiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s writing style is extremely personal, hence the title of her collection of works, and that is because for her writing has always been a personal therapeutic practice. Ajayi wanted to create a very emotional work with this book, and for her that meant somewhat disregarding form, disregarding the discomfort of others, or not entirely worrying about confusion.