Laura C. Lippman
Moral Dilemma, Philly, 1972
Acts of Mercy
They came by bus, night-ride from Chicago,
carrying burdens they couldn’t afford.
Sweaty, sleepless, and scared, they straggled
into a seedy waiting room, eased into purloined chairs
against dirty walls. Me and my fellow first-years
waited for them—nary a licensed doctor in sight.
We meant well, extracting our new stethoscopes
and blood pressure cuffs from our Lilly leather satchels.
A legion of felonious abortions loomed.
We were to pilot a clever newfangled tool
introduced by an inventor-psychologist
with the personal magnetism of a movie star.
He meant well, the only man there, performing
amid the pheromonic frenzy of feminists
circling round as he demonstrated his device.
Skirting the knife edge of the law,
and risking our medical school education,
we clasped our newfangled cannulas close.
As the instruction began and I approached
the stirruped objects of curettage, my courage left me,
in spite of the rightness of this course.
I snuck out the back alley,
taking my new tools with me.
My breaths, hard and deep,
condensed in the brisk outside air.
Guilty, scared, and shaking,
I steadied myself against the alley’s cold brick.
