I have seen a sad thing.
Faces twisted in strange (un)righteous anger outside a clinic
Or sitting around the dinner table laughing
Like the world was not just shaken gravely beneath the feet of half of them
(No, all of them)
(No, all of us)
Or shouts of celebration when a wail of grief is due.
We played the pipe for you and you did not dance.
We sang a dirge, and you did not mourn.[1]
(What is wrong with them?
What has gone so wrong with us?)
Continue reading “Post-Roe Dirge by Liz Cooledge Jenkins”