go childlight
21
and the truth
given casually:
you will, perhaps
never have children
without their help.
Fine,
you say.
But at 23
you think you
have fallen in love
and rethink that answer.
Babies
haunt you,
perfect pink bodies
smooth chocolate skin
eyes with and without
epicanthic folds
begin to rustle
under your skin.
everything reminds you
of your ovaries
lumpy raspberries
of wasted potential.
Fine,
you say, louder.
I will not grieve.
I will smile and claim
the writing and the cats
as infants.
You play with the children
friends bring, diffidently.
Besides,
babies are nothing but smelly stinks
and noise
(and petal-perfect smiles)
and they never turn out
quite how you think.
It was never your hankering
to be a mother, anyway.
smile
when you mother asks
when she gets grandchildren.
Remember
some children hate their parents.
But
don't share the secret
the immutable
incorrigable
unreasoning craving
for a child;
remember the horrible world
and be secretly glad
you do not have the choice.
—ksf, 9/9/99