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
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.