my uterus large. Broken
bell ringing in the body
I could’ve sworn
was made of gears.
MOTHERS
Once I heard a mother on the subway say to her toddler, If you walk away one more time, I’m going to punch you in the leg. The kid kept smiling.
Today my son is sitting on my lap at school in the morning, and a boy gets close to us, points to my son’s belly and names him over and over.
My son slaps him softly across his face.
No hitting! That’s not ok! He was being nice. We don’t hit. Are you ok? The boy looks the same as ever. Dopey, gentle, fine.
I know people are judging me as a mother all the time.
I THOUGHT IT WAS A GOOD IDEA TO WALK TO CVS WITH MY SON ON A NINETY-DEGREE DAY
First we go to the Rita’s next door. The plastic spoon slices that flesh inside my lips—
because you wouldn’t call that skin, right? The rest of the day I run my tongue over the slices,
which remind me of the shape of the spoon, as if it’s in my mouth again.
We waited so long at CVS, I bought my son a coloring book that was on sale.
You color in a page, then you use an app on your phone to transform it. They call it 4D
as if everyone’s an idiot.
For the walk home, we take nine smaller roads. I catch sight of a ground-down stump
to the right of the sidewalk. Only then do I see branches piled high to the left. Just like that
we’re walking through a body like it’s nothing.
I complain to my husband on the phone about how I can’t get the stroller
over the broken cement of someone’s driveway. Only then do I see someone sitting in the yard
within earshot. I want to apologize. I want to say, It’s like mine.
But it’s too late. I’m a bitch at the end of a three-mile walk after my insurance almost
denied coverage for my anxiety medication.
I think my anxiety isn’t mine at all. I think it’s communal.
I know they’ve found that we inherit trauma, but what about when there’s no time to pass it
between generations. What then?
At home, we drink water. We’re covered in sweat. We color in a dragon.
With the app, he flies above the page, the color my son gave his skin,
his head turning as if he heard my son’s voice, until he does it over and over, predictable
little dragon head. Whole predictable body.
We’ll all be sleeping tonight, at some point. At some point,
we’ll all be sleeping tonight. Unless we die in these last hours of the day.
But if we make it through, my head will look like yours, asleep. Just like it. Just like that.
EVERYTHING SMALL
Look, ok, the story—
first, a fox
is on fire, but not
dying, no, in a god-
like way, and flying
a bit, you know,
in the yard
above the grass
in a figure eight
loosely,
and grinning
so maybe you look
at the fox and think,
He’s a fool!
except that you’re
distracted by
all the fire,
how you feel heat
from him from
inside the house
where you’ve been
all along,
haven’t you?
But to continue—
second, a rabbit,
small enough
to hide beneath
a weed,
one leaf of a weed,
which is sad,
yes, pity the body
before it’s grown
fully, or
the body that
can’t complete
itself how it might,
not that
everything small
is paltry, just
worry about
the rabbit for me
who’s in the yard
right now
under that fiery fox
that came
out of nowhere.
Shit, you left
the house
with a treat in your
hand as if you
understand foxes,
fox-gods, any
wild animal
in
