The Value of the Infertile

Before I knew how to or when I carried the weight of a woman.

No blood, no sex, no love for a man – but I knew.

I understood deeply the pain of more than a few.

Every argument ending in, “galang yuh ol dutty mule”.

The anguish of a woman used as a deadly tool.

A weapon that tears apart the soul.

Labelled cursed and unable to pay nature’s toll.

But why is a woman’s worth wrapped up in her ability to give birth?

I absorbed the pain of women near and far.

But I felt deeply for one more than all.

She was beautiful and sweet, but also erratic.

Somber days, solemn days, loud days, quiet days, low days, and some days ecstatic.

They heightened her pain by making her life a stain.

To them, without a daughter or a son, she only had worth to the son of all sons.

Their words were flaming darts, and her womb bore the bullseye.

The pain of the fruitless witnessed through a child’s eyes.

“Children must be seen and not heard,”

But from children, they do not hide the ways they hurt.

Insults hurled at another like a battle axe.

Pain that a child witnesses but dare not ask.

She had a man who loved her,

But he was ridiculed for the way he was manhandled by her.

He was labelled as stupid and weak,

Because of the abuse and curse, he didn’t speak.

With unconditional love, he tried to fix

That which the fertility gods had missed.

A botched adoption brought her momentary satisfaction.

Within a week the child was gone,

Giving rise to whispers of a child bought at dawn.

She tried to grow what would not sow.

Someone’s child she tried to know,

But that mother changed her yes to no.

More ridicule. Her grief and loss brought twisted jubilation,

To those who despised her without provocation.

Their arsenal was full,

A new bullet to release when the trigger’s pulled.

As I grew older and harbored thoughts of being a mother,

I never planned for my womb to bear a flower.

I planned my motherhood around the joy, left by another,

To prevent my own hope turning sour.

I tried to immunize myself against their lies,

That I’m only worthy once I’ve pushed life from between my thighs.

Motherhood is sacred, but it’s not the destination that’s lauded.

It’s the growth and the expulsion that’s applauded.

Women have adopted and fostered,

Only in the heat of an argument to be told they’re nothing more than imposters.

How do we value the infertile?

By recognizing that the woman bears the womb,

The womb doesn’t bear the woman.