by Michelle Ornat
There are two reasons people don’t have kids:
One. They can’t stomach kids or sticky fingers
or not knowing how to answer the question ‘why?’
Two. They’re just like me. I don’t have
the meat and potatoes to make a baby.
When people ask me why I don’t have kids,
I feel sorry for them. They think I’m supposed to
be praying to Jesus for a miracle to plump up
my ovaries or I’m supposed to be all battered
to hell over missing the miracle of breast feeding.
So I tell them how Kevin and I are gearing up,
how we’re going to colon cleanse and bicycle the world
before the inevitable conception.
Until I’m fifty or wrinkled and invisible,
I’ll keep saying how we want to get the prep just right,
like it’s all perfectly normal, like the odds
would naturally be in our favor,
that I’ve always had the 15% chance
of the ordained atoms colliding inside of me.
But the odds never were.