She had been asked to use her uterus,
To incubate the birth of someone else's child.
She was asked if she would keep it baked...
And to become a surrogate,
For a while.
I know my ideals are old fashion.
And a gift wished by another,
Should not be denied.
But if I carried something within me,
For nine months.
It would be hard to see...
Someone take it from my side.
Or denied me the opportunity...
To rush to comfort my child,
When my child cried.
Some have called me a 'mother'.
By another name attached and meant.
And perhaps it is good I am not that kind.
Since I can not perceive myself...
As a storage space,
To be paid nine months for rent!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
An interesting angle about surrogate mothers. I like how you 'itemize' them like some commodity for sale, it does reflect the reality of this practice.. Thanks for sharing!