The Mother Artist

Having given flesh of her flesh,

The Mother Artist repossesses

Her symptom-free (re)productivity.

A phantom within

Speaks only to her

And waits for long stretches 

For the kind of focus that permits 

The Touching of space

She can’t

Otherwise fit in

Or else, the comments section exclaims, Neglect! 

Now that she’s this mommy person

Caring for more than 

She used to 

Like her mother or every mother she sees 

Expressions of slash 

Squeezed between schedules,

Sucks soothing silences like one dying of thirst

As the unattached sing themselves

And Languish in the contemplation of their songs. 

She hushes, having forfeited her focus

The moment her swell sunk its plus

And now, the rub;

So when you see her, off to the side,

Of two different minds,

Maybe nursing during the writing workshop

Or stepping out of story time to answer a call

Know that she’s holding back 

What might otherwise divulge

Onto the ones about her who cry 

Because she has to 

And you’ll either deal with it or not.

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