Long, abandoned hallway with peeling paint, cracked walls, and broken windows, leading to a closed wooden door with light streaming through at the far end.

When the Clinic Closes: A Poem from the Last Days in North Dakota

When the last abortion clinic in North Dakota shut its doors, the silence was deafening. In the poem North Dakota, Christina captures what that moment meant—not in legislation, but in lived experience.

By Christina

Long, abandoned hallway with peeling paint, cracked walls, and broken windows, leading to a closed wooden door with light streaming through at the far end.

The last clinic in North Dakota closed, forever.

North Dakota

The locked door is heavy,

solid,

permanent.

The people

against choice

surround us,

pray and

laugh.

Now, the closest clinic

for abortion

is sixteen hours away.

My pink vest with

‘CLINIC ESCORT’

on the front and back

has been retired,

hangs in the closet,

wire slowly easing through.

The weight of injustice,

thins the fabric of choice

until it is frayed,

only threads.

Women are

trapped in the humid hatred,

unable to

receive the care needed.

(There are

no clinics left

in North Dakota.)

-Christina