"9 Months"

Erika Dickerson

Walking placentas colonize
themselves on my block.
Broken hymens seem to be
contagious like
chicken pox.

Legs spread quicker
than gossip does, but
latex is always left out.

Six girls I knew caught the
'Nine month' syndrome.
Futures swallowed by prenatal pills and
premature parenthood.

I. Tammie, 19
Prettiest girl I ever knew,
tresses longer than blood lines.

Admired her when we were just as
elementary as monkey bars.

Graduation brought Gerber
baby. We speak with glances now.
Mine say, "I'm disappointed."
Hers say, "I know."

II. Dyrissa, 18
Sketched her prospect through
paintings.
Said she would study
law, objecting the thought of adding
to her mother's collection of five
grandchildren.

Her paintings now hang over a crib
In her daughter's bedroom.
An empty
Brief case sits on the floor, waiting to be
revisited.

III. Sonia, 18
My friend's big sister.
Always made sure problems never
erased our smiles.

She struggles to keep
hers, while school, work, and
public housing rattles her
brain beneath blankets she'll
soon be sharing.

IV. Ashley, 15
Proclaimed if the test was positive
you'd drink Pine Sol, take a hanger and
give yourself an abortion.

That was eighth grade. Thank God
for second chances. Negative is still
your favorite word.

V. Clareece, 14
Special education classes didn't
talk about sex. Figured you'd never
have to worry about it.

Time tables multiplied the number of
days you were absent, while you added
the weeks you were late.

Grades was more abortive than
your baby. But you neglected both.

VI. Terronda, 13
We nicknamed you slut in
seventh grade. Nobody wanted to
touch you, scared to catch whatever
disease repelled even the teachers.

You found your own Valentine turned
cupid when his arrow shot semen.
You withdrew from school. You'd finally
found someone that would touch your insides;
for nine months.

The next generation is already here.
How will you contribute?