My Womb Would Echo

I look down the hall

to where my descendants do not sit,

hear the echoes of my genes,

the fall of my footsteps,

see the unholy-waiting-for-dust,

the future of my body.

(It is a tomb of malfunctions

like the future of my race.)

Were I a woman, my womb would echo.

Instead, with a man's body I am solid inside.

My heart beat is muffled, cannot be heard.

At a quarter century, I realize

that there shall be no flesh of my flesh.

No accidents, no broken condoms,

no forgetting birth control,

no failed tubal ligation.

Were I a woman, my womb would echo.

Instead, no one will hear, or think twice,

that I will choose to be barren.

Most men would be happy

to know there was no chance of child support,

or being trapped in a marriage.

No first words or steps,

no bad drawings on the fridge,

no chance at brilliance or pride.

Were I a woman my womb would echo.

Instead, I found an empty place

in my man's heart, in which I sing.