This is a poem I probably shouldn't print. It's presumptuous on too many levels. I've never had a miscarriage and I can't possibly know the pain and frustration of having a miscarriage. I understand this. Yet, as a writer, I can't help but try to put myself in the positions of others, even when those positions are painful. Let me just say this, if I offend anyone by putting this here, I'm sorry. I really am. I don't intend to cause you pain.
Miscarriage
Don't call me barren. I am not barren.
I have taken seed and held it.
I have brought forth life.
I have done everything right.
So why don't I have a baby?
Why am I not a mother, as I long to be?
Every day my womb aches with emptiness.
I wrap my arms around my own belly,
Too flat, hollow, wasted.
I've nearly run out of tears.
My head spins with the endless cycle
Of anger, depression. Anger. Depression.
Whoever came up with this name?
As though I made a mistake.
As if I dropped something after a misstep.
As if I failed to carry my baby correctly.
The implication is there, that this is my fault.
That I can learn to do it properly.
That I can avoid the next "spontaneous abortion."
As though a brief moment of doubt caused this.
One whimsical moment of impulse.
Spontaneous abortion.
Stop fucking calling it that!
Do you hear me? Stop. Fucking. Calling. It. That.
None of these things is right.
I have had no "spontaneous abortions."
I have not failed to carry my baby correctly.
Above all, I am not barren.
I have almost been a mother.
And no matter what, I will be a mother.
August 2008
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