I Have no children, I will have no children.
Sperm have swum in me but drowned, nothing
planted, nothing caught. I will never feel a knee
swipe across my body from the inside
like a credit card in a slot, like a dancer’s toe
across a gleaming floor. My blood will never pulse
with another living heartbeat. I will never grow
blue crooked veins from baby weight. My legs
will always be less like my mother’s, more like my father’s.
Perhaps I will always be more child than adult,
always a daughter, never the monarch, never the queen
commanding my subjects, never the woman warm
in bed with the child who carries her dreams to me in
the blackest moments of night. I will never rush my child,
swollen, hive-ridden, to the emergency room. I will never
wonder where she is at 2 a.m., will never worry about her
drinking and driving, will never be told to f*ck off
by the teenaged version of the baby
whose lips used to pull at my nipple, my milk
dropping low through my breast like love.
Author: Kate Evans
Editor: Renee Jahnke
Image: Vinoth Chandar-Flickr