The Wizard of Obscenity
The art monster ate my second baby
and the third and fourth ones after that.
I wrote their flesh away in pen and ink,
my paper powdered with the fine bone dust
of their white teeth.
I watched my toddler grow
and grieved and grew tired of grief. I grew
tired of dwelling in the gap between
plans and dreams. Children are real, but
motherhood is a false sense of certainty.
I came across myself as an old note
folded pocket-sized, its edges grayed and
fibrous, its tarnish disguising its use.
It made the tender, crumpled sound
of something good to eat
as a pair of tiny hands
unwrapped its truth. Take a solitary
thing: divide it. Can you come up with a
new way of saying it is broken in
two? If you multiply by half, you are
reduced. When power only
comes from hiding, where is the wisdom in
that? I don’t want words like sacrifice,
deprive, resentment. I want to watch
my dog sleep in the sun
while I write this poem.
I want not to be pestered by my own
contentment. I played house. I played school.
My child will do it, too. None of which
predicts the future or precludes the fact
that it is up to you. You alone will
suffer indecision, die holding your
breath. So instead I’ve gone ahead
and chosen between regrets.
Ambition is a nasty word for a girl.
published in Arlington Literary Journal, Issue 163: August 2022