Incessant buzzing from-
the alarm clock
buried in my womb
startled everyone.
I heard the hollow ticking,
counting fertility.
Every twenty eight days or so,
I bled failure.
Why do people-
lecture on about
your existence?
Barren, old women,
hell bent on frightening
young girls about the brief
life of a demon biological clock.
The constant echo caused my
eggs to recoil in fear.
I remember,
growing my third baby-
four blissful months
knee deep in pink and blue
Until, the man in the white coat
said he could no longer hear a heart beating.
A child died that day.
All I got were boat fulls of "I'm sorry"-
and memories of obscene
sounding words.
I left that hospital empty handed,
except for garish get well balloons
and dead flowers.
No infant swaddled-
in the nook of my arms,
I was in the section of the ward,
where they put women with
failed and silent incubators.
Together, we rode home
with the baby I now was bleeding out.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Tears! so touching, so painful! It makes me weep for such a terrible loss.