by Oliver Brooks

Before I was given “the talk,” I believed in spontaneity
and put all my chips on wild impulse: I thought
babies formed on their own in haphazard
and timely ways, like gray hairs and growth spurts

simply happen. When my mother told me women
had some choice in the matter, I accepted
their omnipotence over matter and bodies
without hesitation. And why couldn’t they decide

to get pregnant at the drop of a hat—a chef’s hat,
perhaps—like deciding what equally miraculous dish
to whip up for dinner: casserole or souffle?
Why not set out intent like carefully setting a table

and waiting for the guest to arrive? In my mind,
every woman was a Virgin Mary—my conception
of the world was immaculate, without fallacy.
I thought it must be a question of meditation and will:

My mini-me will be the perfect clay self-portrait,
mud-faced, sun-sculpted, an earthen slurry
that knows from where she came, a woman would chant
and thereafter came her Promethean quickening.

Perhaps it was a matter of personal discipline,
forcing nature’s hand by following a strict diet
of lucky iron fish soup and mineral supplements.
At the least, the paradigm writ large across the stars

comprised free vouchers, redeemable on a whim.
I only found out otherwise when my sister was born
two weeks early, perfect as a peach, and our mother
told me, well, you’ve got to keep on keeping on
—but what joy in choice, nonetheless.

Oliver Brooks (he/they) is a trans poet and MFA student at Florida State University. His work appears or is forthcoming in New Delta Review, Cream City Review, Honey Literary, 3Elements Literary Review, Full House Literary, and elsewhere. He serves as Poetry Editor for the Southeast Review.