This morning the temperature is 13° F. My double-wall vacuum-insulated Klean Kanteen will be put to the test. I paid $19.99 for it at Whole Foods and am still questioning the purchase. + One of the regular screamers asks if we know how many abortions are performed each day. Propped against his gut is a sign bearing a magnified image of a bloody fetus with the caption “3,500 Babies Murdered Every Day,” so I’m gonna take a guess that the number is not 3,500. The New England Journal of Medicine cites 3,700; the CDC reports just under 1,800. My co-escort says she can’t take that sign seriously because the intestines look like ramen. + When the runner approaches where he’s standing near the clinic door, he whispers 29. She nods. Mutters a Hail Mary as her white pearl rosary slips through her fingers. + grace /grās/ noun

+ She must have been on vacation — it’s been weeks — but today, she’s back. In those fucking suede wedgie boots. She begins the chase, runs after patients all the way to the door, leans over my shoulder. I shrug her off, and she shouts, “Moms deserve love and support — it’s never too late to change your mind!” Once the clinic doors close, she turns, gets so close to my face that my eyes feel crossed, tells me that she has a right to educate women. Her lawyer says we are not to get in her way. + According to several sources I Google on my iPhone, tigers are one of the world’s top apex predators with no natural enemies. They exist at the top of their food chain. + Q-Tip arrives in her signature furry white hat and fur-lined snow boots. A small American flag is haphazardly attached with duct tape to the sign around her neck. “Jesus loves the babies! Jesus LOVES THE BABIES!” + ice shards in a sidewalk crack holy redeemer + Despite the HotHands toe warmers, my feet have gone numb. I know the tingling will remain after I bathe this afternoon. + The Mayo Clinic says that there are four stages of frostbite. During the last stage, “the area turns black and hard as the tissue dies.” + The antis laugh at a companion who’s having a cigarette on the sidewalk. Say he’s strung out on heroin. Say he’s the worst kind of sinner. As he raises the cigarette to his lips, his shaky hand zig-zags the smoke. Three antis surround him, and then the screaming. Pink vests swoop in, and I threaten to call the cops. Say I’m always calling the cops. Say I’m always trying to persecute them. Say they have a right to free speech. Say I should be calling the cops on the druggie-loser. He’s crying now. Rubs his brow. Looks up at the clinic window. Says he just wants some peace. + “Peace be with you, and also with you.” + The sidewalk a proscenium stage “Our Lady of the Theatre” challenges the screamers what about lesbians? why can’t they adopt babies? in her bedraggled clothing cookbooks from the library under her arm she withstands their eruption live oak in a hurricane Men, men, men, men, men… everything men! When she is here, they don’t see me. + Two more planters boasting decorative pine have appeared on the sidewalk. The restaurant next door must really be in the Christmas spirit. I try to move them to make room for patients to walk to the clinic door, but they won’t budge. + gaunt·let /ˈgôntlət,ˈgäntlət/ noun

+ “Women were not made to be rulers!” + At the end of the shift, I climb the long hill to my car on the street lined with Victorian houses; on Saturdays, the parking is free. While I adjust Spotify to find the right playlist for the long ride home, one of the screamers — the guy with the creepy Hitler-mustache — walks by on the sidewalk. As he passes the window, we stare at each other. He looks away first. I watch him in the rear-view mirror until he saunters out of sight. He never looks back. + Her baby was already dead. + He returns from the diner, whispers to the escorts that in five minutes we need to take cover. From the recessed driveway, we hear the thud of hard-boiled eggs hurled at their signs. Another time, a companion who’s carrying almost makes good. Another time, the security guards circle the building when an unknown bag propped against the building shows up on camera. Another time… + Hot coffee escapes my mouth dribbles down my chin stains my collar.

Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.