Rachel Oates | Romb | Rachel Oates (a pro-choice, childfree poem) @RachelOates | Uploaded 2 years ago | Updated 6 hours ago
Hi all, here is a poem I wrote in support of the reproductive rights of all AFAB people and my personal decision to remain childfree by choice.

Thank you to Peter Waterman of Longcroft Recording and Joel Gardner of A Film By Joel for the beautiful audio and video recording.
longcroftrecording.com | @peterwaterman2007
afilmbyjoel.co.uk | @afilmbyjoel

And thank you to Daisy Chute and Cerian for giving me the opportunity to perform this piece with Heard Collective at Glastonbury 2022 and for always believing in me. ♥
@DaisyChuteOfficial
@Cerian
@HEARDCollective

More Poems:
Heroes: youtube.com/watch?v=QfTH35Bu6BY&ab_channel=RachelOates | racheloates.uk/heroes
Misery Symphony: youtu.be/FTwIhn0zqJ4 | racheloates.uk/misery-symphony

#reproductiverights
#childfreebychoice
#prochoice

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Romb

There’s a room in my house
That everyone has an opinion about.

Somedays, I’ll be sitting at home
When a gaggle of people barge in,
uninvited,
to inspect the room.
They warn me
‘It’s no use sitting empty.’
‘Think of the potential.’
‘Be more grateful.’
‘Some people aren’t lucky enough to have a room like this.’
I’m sorry for them,
of course,
but why do they get to decide
What I do with my room in my house?

Daily, I’m interrogated
From every angle:
‘How many people have passed through here?’
How long did they stay?’
And then, squinting at me, with hushed voices:
‘Did they leave or did you evict them?’
They look at me like I’m a monster,
a landlord from hell
to a room that’s always been vacant.
‘This just won’t do.’ They chastise,
‘And who wants an old, used room anyway?’
Storming out in disgust,
They don’t hear my sigh of relief.

As the years go by,
I place a padlock and chain around the room
Only to have men in suits show up with
Paper bolt cutters to tear it down.
Men, women and children saunter in
With buckets of paint,
ladders, hammers, and a measuring tape
They legislate to redecorate before,
In their words, it gets too late.
They tell me I need a minimum of 3 previous occupants
And to marry a man who who’ll decide for me
Before they trust a silly little woman like me
To place a lock on her own property

Without my locks,
I live in fear that one day I’ll wake up
And find an unwanted guest in my spare room,
A plague or pest, or a strange, dark mould will sneak in;
At first so subtle I don’t even notice it,
But quickly and quietly it will spread through the rest of my home,
Decaying and degrading as it goes.
The neighbours pop round and tut at me
As I’m furiously scrubbing the walls until I bleed
To remind me that each life is precious
And that they’d kill for a spore or two of their own.
They don’t realise that where they see pets and guests,
I see only pain and pests so unwelcome,
I’d rather burn my home to the ground than keep them there.

A friend of mine, has a roommate,
who keeps her up all night,
And makes a lot of noise,
and leaves her stuff all over the house,
And she often asks me,
With bags under her eyes
and pity on her face,
and just a quiet hint of envy in her voice.
‘Doesn’t it get quiet?
Lonely?
Sad.
Sure, you like the silence now,’ she warns,
‘But what about the future? You’ll change your mind’
I want to remind her that I didn’t comment
when she painted her walls bright pink
or spent 3 month’s wages on a new sofa
or built 2 new extensions before she’d paid off the first.
but I don’t
Because it’s still not my business.

There’s a room in my house
And sometimes it feels like everyone’s voice is louder than mine.


But when I’m alone
I can sit in that room,
And enjoy it,
Appreciate it,
Really get to know it,
I run my fingers along it’s smooth walls
Lay on the thick, soft carpets,
And stare up at the unblemished ceiling.
I bask in the calm and the quiet
and inhale the scent of freedom and home
And the joy of being alone that is so uniquely me.
And once I’ve reminded myself
that empty does not mean it is
without purpose,
without beauty,
without joy,
empty is not lonely,
or cold,
or wasted potential,
empty is exactly what I make of it:
My responsibility, my gift and my burden,
And I won’t bend or break or lean or fall
I’ll maintain my right to close the door
because I can

I close the door because there’s a room in my house
And it’s all mine.



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Romb - pronounced 'room' - is a play on the words room / womb. :)

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