Poems from Future Tense
The poems below are excerpted from Future Tense, a memoir by Kelly Grace Thomas (Alice James Books). Go here for a Q&A with the author.
Feartility
“The global fertility market was valued at USD 26.88 billion in 2020 and projected to reach USD 45.40 billion by 2027.” —Precedence Research
I bought it:
the basal thermo-
meter and ovulation
sticks, the bracelet
that buzzed every time
an egg exited or expired—
The diet course
that said cut:
caffeine, carbs, wine.
Said I was sick
with stress. Said Tai
Chi. Said, Speak
your spirit baby here.
Said, Workshop your womb.
Manifest motherhood.
Said stop worrying.
Stop wondering.
They said, Maybe
you’re the problem. Said,
Ladies who don’t woo-woo
right don’t want it
bad enough. How close
scarcity and sacredness sit.
I cried and counted every prayer
I purchased: fertility
meditation, Fearlessly
Fertile coaching. The at-home
acupressure course.
I pressured and pushed
while watching Schitt’s Creek,
mourning the weed
I wasn’t smoking.
The IUI on Christmas Eve.
The third ultrasound.
The IVF consult. The specialist
said, You’d be throwing away
tens of thousands to even try.
Lack met with lack,
debt with debt.
A body so bankrupt
not even capitalism
could save it.
Every cycle, a small
funeral. I paid
for them all.
Originally published in Tahoma Literary Review
Omid and I Argue Over IVF
My breath falls as I lay
my crown of weeds on his
resistance. Such a guilty tide. I rise.
Sink. The healer told us: Build
an altar. Call your child in. Not one
comes. Only this ugly
hope. This guzzle
and purge. This taunt of blood.
I see myself dismantling;
the calendars I’ve lit, the wax:
soft and counted. The tiny wooden sailboat
thirsty for blue. My acupuncturist says,
If god wants you to have a baby, he will
give you one. I pay for her cruelty.
Is it wrong to force a family
into being? No one told me infertility
lays so many eggs. Panicked
offspring hatching. This isn’t the woman
I married, Omid says to me.
Babies wail down the hall.
I wander the house
rock each empty to sleep.
Originally published in Birdfeast
I Ask Myself, How Long Do You Bleed?
Erase the statistics, the doctor’s
sigh, the addiction to answers
no one has. Let go
of the promises. Thumb
the smooth stone of grief.
Say infertility three times
in the mirror. Talk about it
until you don’t. Return
the advice, the mantras,
the supplements. Hope hurts
the most. Decide when to stop
carrying. Stand at the mouth
of the sea. Give back this stone.
Originally published in The Shore
About the Author
KELLY GRACE THOMAS, poet, writer, and coach, is the author of Future Tense and Boat Burned. She is the winner of the Jane Underwood Poetry Prize and the Neil Postman Award for Metaphor from Rattle. Kelly’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in:
The Sun, The Adroit Journal, 32 Poems, Los Angeles Review, Sixth Finch, and elsewhere. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Randolph College and lives in Benicie, where she coaches poetry online.
Related Posts
“A Place to Feel It All”: Kelly Grace Thomas on Infertility, Adoption, and Urgent Joy →
Childcare and Breathing: An Excerpt from STUDENT PARENT →
Lost and Found: Join us at the Brooklyn Book Festival x MUTHA x Pen Parentis Lit party! →
