Ode to Donor Gametes
I was not thinking of Russia
or the Holocaust or eugenics
when I picked the donor
from an online catalog like
I was ordering a new pair of shoes.
I don’t mean to sound blasé.
It was more complicated than that.
But by the time spring came
and the third failed IVF, I didn’t care
about SAT scores or eye color;
I wanted any embryo that latched
to my uterine wall and grew.
The German philosophy major,
the filmmaker from California, even
the one whose favorite food was pork.
What did genes matter? I already knew
I’d name my second child for dead relatives
from the old country, the ones
who made it out before the camps.
My uterus washed with grief, empty
kiddush cup after the seder.
That was the only time I really prayed.
That day when I paced outside,
waiting for a call from my doctor
with good news, eggs and sperm
married in a petri dish, an offering
from a Midwestern girl
with ovarian abundance and kind eyes
who knew to look away.
■
I was not thinking of Russia
or the Holocaust or eugenics
when I picked the donor
from an online catalog like
I was ordering a new pair of shoes.
I don’t mean to sound blasé.
It was more complicated than that.
But by the time spring came
and the third failed IVF, I didn’t care
about SAT scores or eye color;
I wanted any embryo that latched
to my uterine wall and grew.
The German philosophy major,
the filmmaker from California, even
the one whose favorite food was pork.
What did genes matter? I already knew
I’d name my second child for dead relatives
from the old country, the ones
who made it out before the camps.
My uterus washed with grief, empty
kiddush cup after the seder.
That was the only time I really prayed.
That day when I paced outside,
waiting for a call from my doctor
with good news, eggs and sperm
married in a petri dish, an offering
from a Midwestern girl
with ovarian abundance and kind eyes
who knew to look away.
■
Today’s poem by Robin Silbergleid was originally published as part of the Academy of American Poets Poem-a-Day series on August 14, 2023.