At the Gynecologist

What makes me cringe isn’t
saying how many men I’ve fucked
or lifting my shirt to reveal
hairy breasts that she—trans-competent—
resolutely only calls “chest.”
It’s what slips out when
she presses powdered-latex fingers
into the flesh over my heart:
“I kind of want to try again.”
Because I don’t actually
want to try again. What I want is
a pregnancy I didn’t pay for.
I want the casualness
of a straight couple who says
if it happens, it happens,
or, well, we’re not not trying.
I want something wild, like
a baby from a sex party,
with ten possible fathers, or
from trying on thrift-store pants,
like an urban legend. I want it
to just happen without me
going off T. Without hoping.
“You could start with
a monitored cycle,” she says,
neutral as beige paint. It’s just
that infertility stories always end
with a miracle baby—accident,
adoption, or IVF—that makes it
all okay. I don’t want
a baby as much as I wish
it would stop hurting.