After yesterday's expected but terrible SCOTUS decision to strike down Roe v. Wade, my place in the world feels much dimmer. It's notable how hard this hits, even for those of us who are no longer of child-bearing age. Roe v. Wade became law in 1973, when I was nine years old. It vanished when I was fifty-seven. So I grew up into adolescence, into young adulthood, with that right enshrined: I had the power to decide. Given how powerless I felt in so many other ways, given the confusions of sexual and gender politics, of the fears and indignities that women have always had to take for granted, the knowledge that I had the right to decide about childbearing was an oak tree. As it happened, I did not have an accidental pregnancy, but I could have. Like most women of my age, I had scares. I longed for children; and even at the wrong times and with the wrong person, I probably would not have opted for an abortion. But that would have been my choice. 

The history of women is, in large part, the history of living under the control of men. And thus choice is no small thing. To choose. To be in charge of deciding. 

And now we've slid back into the maw.

* * *

Today the conference begins, so my time with you may be quick and scattered . . . or I may be writing reams: who knows? My study is tidy and organized. I vacuumed all of the crumbs out of my new poet chair, and picked a big Zoom bouquet of sweet peas and yarrow and peony buds. I am ready with lessons and prompts and ice tea, and am hoping that my internet connection won't let me down. We've got a beautiful group of participants, familiar faces and new ones, and I am ready to sink down into the world of words and emotion.

We live in a nation in torment. We are a cadre of poets. There will be tears. But it's good to have people who can cry together.