36th and Quebec

From the parking lot of my neighborhood chick-fil-a, you can almost make eye contact with a pale fetus spread thin across a billboard to the north. Its fractionally formed features seem determined to invade visions and sway decisions through silhouette and shock value. The air about this area is that of the unrelenting and authoritative. Hot hatred brewed in the hiccuping belly of the fear fueled and faithful. Perhaps the photograph, forever frozen in that flattened first trimester, simply sought revenge. Bent against those of us lucky enough to survive until our cells felt they had multiplied adequately to exit the ick and survive the thunder and lightning of the atmospheric world. Perhaps if this embryo, so extorted by the evangelical, knew of the complications of heartbreak or child sex trafficking, it’s envy for our extra dimension would dwindle. At least enough for it to mind its own damn beeswax or embryonic fluid or whatever substance is of equivalent social significance to such a creature.