All This to Say When They Slipped Out of Me

I sucked on a honey stick. I snipped off the end
and honey dripped sweet relief after the morning,

she shoved pinched metal inside me, she told me:
a tiny IUD, a tiny uterus, a tiny squeeze. Did I want

to stop? I said yes, yes, yes yes,
don’t stop, I want it, ohmygodyes I don’t want

to get pregnant. I howled consent into my hands
pressed to my face, counting to breathe past forty-two

I cried as this new drop of fear was squeezed
into a ten year boiling vat, swirled until it dissolved

then I too was added to the list of people who can’t
reassure you about getting an IUD, all I’m good for

is another curse to the senators who shoved this tiny
plastic into my soft wet cervix, one raised eyebrow

and my insurance was gone, one raised pinkie and
my abortion was gone so yes, oh yes I wanted this

plastic shoved up my hole, please! All this to say
when they slipped out of me as easy as honey

on the tongue and said you’re finished now I thought:
someday i will have a baby, i will be on this table

again and ask to be emptied, I will ask for it and
cry and I will say yes, no no no no yes, no no yes.

Shosh Lovett-Graff is from New Haven, Connecticut. They are a founding editor of Toho Journal, and their work has been published in The Flexible Persona (nominated for a Pushcart Prize), Pittsburgh Poetry Journal, Crab Fat Magazine, TAB Magazine, The Westchester Review, and more. They study religion, ethics and politics at Harvard Divinity School.