Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome

One of the first
things I tell any boy
is this: When I was thirteen,
I found out that I
cannot have kids.

This probably scares
them away, but I figure
they have a right
to know. Often, they tell me
they don’t care.

Yeah, neither did I.

Then I turned sixteen.
I started driving.
I got a job.
I realized I wanted
to have a family
one day.

Adopt, they tell me, adopt.
This is already part
of my plans. I do want to adopt.
But I also want a child of my own.
Four, if I can really have it
my way.

And yet everything I read
tells me forty-percent chance
of miscarriage. Inability
to ovulate. Extra testosterone.
Some odds, huh?

The doctors can’t even find
actual, physical cysts. So,
really, it’s a variant. Still
I’ve been diagnosed.

I may never swell with a child.
I will watch teenage girls,
having children just because
they can. And I will hate them.
They will hate themselves.
I already hate myself.

But this is what I always
tell them:
When I was thirteen,
I found out that I
cannot have kids.