My Wombs was in Your Hands

God damn you, Bastard
My womb was in your hands.

It was your job to bandage me
With kind words.
It was your job to medicate me
With the best advice.
It was your job to heal me
With your knowledge.

But instead
You told me it's dead,
That made three.
You called me a "bad statistic"
as an uncomfortable chuckle seeped
from between your mustache and beard.
You sent me away to face
that there was no charm in the third time,
There was no magic, no miracle, no mother.

Again, I threw away the paper dress
And put on my clothes
And rode home in the car
And looked into my husband's disappointed eyes
And attempted to make love
And struggled to breathe

All the while I hated you.

For what you said
For what you didn't say
Which left me: legs-spread and bleeding.

Elizabeth A. Lucas

I have written a series of poems called "Struggle to Mother." The poem I am submitting is the first in that series. It describes the callous response I received from my male obstetrician after my third miscarriage.

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"I am thirty two flavors and then some
and I'm beyond your peripheral vision
so you might wanna turn your head
'cause some day you might find you are starving
and eating all of the words that you said."
- Ani Difranco, "Thirty-Two Flavors"