Infertile

They ask me why there are no children around me.
They ask why there is no infant in my arms.
They ask how I was so lucky to escape motherhood.

"You've been married for a while..."
"When are you going to have a baby?"
"Why don't you have children yet?"

I try to explain, try to swallow the anger and the shame.
I was in a car accident,
a mangled pelvis that will probably never be able to cradle life,
a hip so thoroughly crushed that they didn't know how to repair it.

I try to explain, try to bite back the tears and the sting.
I have an imperfect body,
ovaries that never really knew how to work properly,
a cervix too far tipped to one side and tilted downward.

They ask me why I don't want to be a mother.
They say I'm wasting my natural mothering skills.
They say I should try, I would be a wonderful parent.

"Why don't you adopt?"
"You'd be such a wonderful mother!"
"You'll change your mind one day."

I try to explain, try to pinch off the sarcasm before it escapes.
I helped raise three children,
a younger sister who has blossomed into adolescent womanhood,
two cousins who are quickly leapfrogging toward teenage years.

I try to explain, the sadness and the depression like a stone.
I watched my mother,
watched her almost bleed to death on our bathroom floor,
five embryos spontaneously aborted by her body.

They offer opinions, telling me I'll change my mind some day.
"You don't want to die a lonely old woman do you?"
They criticize, echoing all the sentiments I have already heard.