I want to be one of those women
in Winco with only a few things in her
cart: organic yogurt, flavored water, a small blue
orchid for the kitchen window. A quiet
Grace Kelly type, or at least Julianne Moore. I’d like
my mom jeans to lie real flat so I’m more
mannequin than mom. But where can I hide
my daughter, trailing behind, a pre-pubescent caboose
asking, Can I have this? about a gummy food made to look
like a stackable burger, and I say Yes
to the gummy burger, perch it on the cereal
and toilet paper. She loves my legs—
draws them as trees in her notebook, her legs
tree trunks too, pine branches for our hair. She used to
grab the soft of my stomach or extra
under my arms when she sucked her thumb. The excess of me,
a comfort. A friend told me sex is the equivalent of
a seven mile run, so I skipped the gym,
fucked a whole lot until I realized
if this were true, the world would be filled
with cigarette-slim legs, and Jesus! we’d be happy. But then how
could I stand with all these things
I carry: the church telling me marriage is God’s
will, my father’s crippled hands that don’t look like
his hands, my son calling from the school auditorium to say,
Mom, we’re all so scared.
A YouTube yogi tells me there’s a thumbnail sized
room at the back of my heart. He says it’s where
my soul lives. I’d like to unzip
my skin, and bow-and-arrow myself
right in there, stretch out
on the couch. Are there flowers
or antlers on the mantel? Do I
have to split wood for the fire? And who
cleans the place up?
