By H. Roth
I could easily exhaust myself
arguing all the finely mapped out reasons
I do not want to be a mother
Ranging from the hazy
hard to pin down and defend
I do not want to
through the agonies and threatened infertility of endometriosis
tracing the intertwined, encroaching vines
of intergenerational trauma
which I am still struggling to extricate myself from
decades later
finishing with my aunt’s death
which is still too raw and exposed a nerve
to probe too deeply
and topped by a desire to reduce the risk of ovarian cancer
my anxiety only slightly reduced by negative BRCA testing
I am summarily blessed with a surgeon
who requires no argument or explanation
when I request a bilateral salpingectomy
shocked into a stumbling silence
my list of reasons dies an abandoned, neglected death
The morning of the surgery, misplaced paperwork necessitates
signing consent a third time
I sign and sign and sign
H. Roth is a poet and writer who works in palliative care. Her writing explores themes of grief, loss, and hope. She lives in Alberta, Canada.