Infertility is a Field

A field green with envy.

For every person that just “accidentally got pregnant.”

Angry wasps jetting around,

stinging like the medications injected in the soft of your belly every month.

An old tree stump, steady reminder of an empty form, invisible branches -

the starling has nowhere to land and build their nest.

Weeds, choking comments from strangers and family.

“Just relax. It’ll be your turn soon. Maybe you should just adopt.”

A thousand dandelion heads strewn across,

lost wishes waiting for you to catch your breath again.

The tiny corpse of a bird, inglorious feathers reaching for the sky they’ll never touch.

Crimson wildflowers, droplets of petals, dreaded blood flow

heavy, heavy, heavy.

Red flowers were never so ugly.

A wounded branch, creaking and cracking, bending.

“How much longer will we hold on to hope?”

Seeds, saplings, semen asphyxiated by stagnant water, once a refreshing rain.

There is no gentle breeze, the air is thick with grief and confusion,

a nauseating smell - how do we take deep breaths in this?

Infertility is a cruel field, feet sinking into the muddy bog.

Perhaps the field becomes a beautiful meadow.

Maybe a single, precious flower grows.

Maybe we are rescued or -

just run, run, run

far away from this hellscape.

Maybe we stay, learn to nestle our head between sharp rocks and rotting logs. Perhaps the field consumes us and one day we find ourselves as fungus.