Take me back to a back alley quack,

away from the taunts of righteous eyes 

and noses pointing towards the sky,

where one mistake, mishap or unfavored odd

can turn my world around: tilt-a-whirled 

to upside-down.

Take me back to a back alley quack.

Alas, I’m not the only one — there are others too

who “never thought it could happen to me.”

(Or you.)

Yet, here we are, tilt-a-whirled 

to upside-down.

We were all served with salt 

to lick our wounds,

as if the bitterness won’t linger.

Still

Jane Roe turned up the hero 

(in a David versus Goliath scenario):

what’s in a name, a pseudonym,

a Roe, by any other name…

the right to choose, the Choice,

Is just as sweet!

Then women all over threw a parade

to celebrate a hard-fought freedom!

(deservèdly or otherwise)

The choice that’s mine and mine alone.

My body.  My future.  My sex.

Then what of you, Mr. Abbott?

You’ve taken me back to that back alley quack.

Mr. Mighty Texan in a cowboy hat.  

You dress yourself in suits

that drip with holy (moly) scripture 

and an unwavering faith in knowing better.

You, in the steel-toed boots,

kicking my progress back — a half century back.

Tilt-a-whirl.

Your tongue wags fire;

your ears reek sulfur.

You look at me through haughty airs.

How is it you have rights to my body? — 

You send me back to a backwards alley.

If in the beginning, there was the Word

and that Word was flesh,

what hope have I to go beyond what I should be,

far as you decree?

I and my ilk would much prefer

the faith and trust and deference

afforded to all of humanity.

We have a right that shouldn’t devolve 

in clandestine trysts over there, in a darkened alley. 

Didn’t you hear?  It’s the 21st century:

Space is a place for tourists now 

and the Earth is hacked and jacked and out of breath.

Yet here I am, spinning, in a world that’s spun —

tilt-a-whirled — by you; 

your Excellency, your Reverend, your Holy Hollowness…

(Sacrilege!) 

You’ve taken me back to a back alley quack, 

my only Savior from the doom that lurks

in a cursèd future that’s tilt-a-whirled.   A pound of flesh.

The price I pay…

Alone…

in the Lone Star state.

©bcisek 2021