B.M. Owens

I wish for her escape. At every gyno visit I wish the doctor would
tell me she's disappeared. I imagine the doctor pushing back my paper

gown and scrambling to find my eggs. No more pregnancy scares—
I wish her a host that wishes to see 2 solid lines on the testing stick.

But there is no transplant and my cervix is swabbed again. I don't
wish her cancer. But, maybe, just a little—caught early enough

to be an excuse. I wish her no questions—no "you'll change your mind
one day." No motherhood mantras. Carve her out. In silence. Let her rest.

With every cramp I wish her one less layer that could attract a potential
copy of my mother. I wish her hollows didn't swell—didn't nudge

when I see children. I wish she didn't dream up versions with my boyfriend's
face. I wish thinking of broken condoms didn't turn her on—that's biology

telling me I'm almost 30. Telling me to pass on my genes. Telling me to resist
hurling the radiation apron across the doctor's room during x-rays.

I wish for her to disintegrate. To zap away any child, like me,
that wishes their mother had chosen not to give birth. I wish her

a new plot of soil—to be planted in a body that wants her.

B.M. Owens was born in Hollywood, Florida. She is working on an MFA and teaching Assistantship at Florida International University. She is currently Poetry Editor for FIU's Gulf Stream Magazine. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Salamander Magazine, Small Orange Journal, and Jai-Alai Books' Waterproof Anthology. She has also been nominated for the 2021 Pushcart Prize.

Follow her on Twitter @serendipity_s28.

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