a poem by a friend of mine

My friend Andrea the poet wrote this and posted it to her blog. It's the best, saddest, most real, most tugging poem I've read in a long time. Probably not of the taste of some, but it's going to be inspiring and moving to others.

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To the Children I Will Not Have

I hope you do not think me callous,
that today in the store I do not turn my head
to look at the cribs or highchairs.
Instead, I leave them to collect dust motes and other buyers,
busy as I am, a to-do list crumpled in my pocket.

I have left you in the cold of non-conception,
though I am sure you have waited for your number to be called.
I once dreamt that I had birthed you, and that you were ill.
In the confusion of waking, I do not know if I cried
because my lover was a woman or because I could not fail you.

There is nothing on this to-do list that asks me softly
for my attentions, no gaps in the planning.
If I walk through the grocery aisle,
I will not be the only one browsing grapes wistfully,
looking for the better of the bunches,
thinking I might've done something ultimately
less lonely, ultimately, more expected.

There is the damage of doing
and the damage of not doing.
I have seen a short look in your grandmother's eyes,
only to cut it with the affirmation
that I will not take a man,
that you cannot be a happy accident.
I am passing thirty, and time stares at me:
inaction becomes a choice, like neglect,
and then the memory of having been able
to do almost anything.

Andrea Barton