Losing Nothing

I have a prescription for Clomid, unfilled

(like so much else). Some medical problems

are only cured by medical disasters, or

by will. I, for example, refuse to want

what I can’t have. Death kills cancer (all

but HeLa). Amputations cure the common cold (or

render it obsolete), and infertility puts the (pun

intended) period at the end of wanting babies. What

is this wanting, anyway? Those grapes seem

sweet, but are they? Biology too often gets us hurt

or lands us elbow deep in baby spit (or worse).

The human race goes on without my fruit

(I’d rather be the fruit; the vine gets the shaft).

Yet, you can’t just forget five years’ hobby: I

might have built a cabin in the woods. Instead,

I measured months and peed on sticks. Forgive me

now my hindsight’s fleeting folly. Give me

certainty of failure over future yearning. The crash

is always better than the long lamenting gaze

through glass about (filled with the intent) to shatter.

1. HeLa

2. Fruit/Vine

3. Crash