Cw: abortion, loss

We drove to Seattle

in my mom's car, borrowed

automatic. 

You don't drive stick.

Driving stick got me into this

we laugh.

Shopping, we tell anyone 

who needs to know,

Girl's day,

birthday.

We hold back the name

of the clinic on the hill,

of the drugs I was shopping for,

enough that I couldn't drive, but 

not enough to forget 

the wet sucking sound,

and the sharp feeling

of the girl

leaving my body 

empty.

Waiting for the ferry, we ate 

dinner at the Spaghetti Factory.

The smell of browned butter mingles

with the shrill screams of a baby

crying

I make the waitress uncomfortable.

You drive me home 

to the party on Hill street,

sheet cake and mostly drunk 

people 

wait in the kitchen,

take my downcast eyes

for embarrassment.

No one asks 

what I bought in Seattle 

for my birthday.

Cleare (she/her) is a neurodivergent adoptee; a forest-dweller schooled in biological anthropology. She loves discovering old bones and new books, and exploring the interplay of identity and belonging. She spends her time wandering the mountains of her mind and the Pacific Northwest in equal measure. This is her first published poem.