Minnehaha Falls the Day After Dobbs

The Court finds that the right to abortion is not deeply rooted in the Nation’s history and tradition.

Roe, that mass of eggs in the ovaries,
or the eggs and ovaries, especially
when ripe. Especially when

eaten. Wade, to trudge through
anything viscous like water
or lava. We walk the ninety-nine

eroded steps down to the base
of the falls. The water cascades
off the rocks like a daughter’s hair

off her freckled shoulders that
then settles at her waist.
Her waist grasped at by our governor

measuring the width of those childbearing
hips. Falls like rose petals fall, bending
downward, flowers heavy as milk laden

breasts. Falls like a she-bear falls
into a pit trap camouflaged with deadfall
in the forest. Falls as in to commit sin,

as in she fell pregnant, as in the fall of
(wo)Man. And the judicial hand
slips farther up her adjudicated

thigh. When we ascend, there is a wedding
party in the garden arbor. The plump
little near-wife with her bouquet

of white lilies drooping even in the shade
and the groom in a pink suit and scuffed
tennis shoes. The wedding party claps.

We clap, then bend to pet the good
little dog scampering by at leash-length.
Later in the parking lot, the new husband

and his now father-in-law rummage
in the trunk of the car. Not finding
what he’s searching for the husband says,

We’ll just make do. Make do. That past-time
of my grandparent’s generation who taught us
how to make pasta and pie crusts from scratch,

how to garden and can, raise and slaughter chickens
and hogs. Taught us how to keep our family intact. Who
preached to us that bailing wire can fix damn near anything.