Anna B. Sutton
The Women’s Clinic in Antioch, TN
On the outskirts of Nashville, behind
the hospital, a little house. Brick ranch
with a half-moon drive, vertical blinds
just visible behind narrow windows, tinted
and bulletproof. Because there’s a picket fence
of protesters; because there’s a city full
of god-fearing folks who’ve taught their children
to hate us; because there are a thousand
tiny white crosses planted on the front lawn
of my grade school. I came to worship here,
at the wall of glass and the security guard
behind it, to make my confession, to take
my communion with this congregation
of women—not mothers, not us. The body
of Christ repels her. I came to be absolved
by the humming machine—
Its cleansing arm extracts a piece of me
that wouldn’t even flicker on the screen.