by John Grey
Hormone steroids, treatments for fertility disturbances,
shots in every part of the body, much probing,
small incisions in the abdomen, up close and
personal with your fallopian tubes –
so, you ask the doctor, am I a woman or not?
So the lab is where our future lies.
Not in the lovemaking, not in the yearning
for a family, but something called progesterone,
its sister-in-arms, pergonal.
In comes the cannula. Time to interrogate the eggs.
My touch is not enough.
I don’t have an ounce of science in me.
Then they turn to my body. But it’s easy meat.
I either have it or I don’t.
For a man, it seems, not having babies
is as easy as having them.
You wait for the results
as you dream your belly
growing like a hot air balloon,
your body floating over all
your sister’s children,
or the one where blades shine,
gloves and smocks are splattered with blood
but you can see the grins,
the exhalation, through the tight blue masks.
In bed, you curl up inside my shoulder,
as I gently whisper, “They’re doing all they can.”
I don’t tell you Bill Gates has just invented Windows,
Steve Jobs is tinkering with Apple.
She wants the brains trust focused.
The future can wait until we know.