Cyanosis
:
a bluish or purplish discoloration (as of skin) due
to deficient oxygenation of the blood
cold lips
four sets
unable to purse for kisses
only house chattering teeth now
tender orifice of fear
this mother
no
longer able to oppugn the voices
standing alone with her children
on
pier 7 in san francisco
the rush of hours
the hush of wind and world around her
sun shining on everyone
everything but her
sets itself into the bosom of the pacific
each of her sons wait
not knowing
should have wanted less
cooperated more
only knew how to push buttons
need hugs
even when she was too tired
or
too loved-deprived to spare them
on
this day
she, unable to kiss another pair of starving lips
or
lie awake on another scrap of plastic, plywood,
metal or spring
strips each trusting child of possibility
hurls him nude
until salt envelops salt
and the clap of waves
silences
apologies
Belly Boy
on a good morning
before the day pulls us from bliss
my son who is seven and
finally leaving my face for his father’s
follows the instinct of his lethargy
into the spaces of my bed
entwines my limbs
kisses and clings to the pooch of belly
he left on my body seven years ago
we fight for possession
until his sister, now a nagsome nine
arrives in her usual fashion to demand
her share of this wealth of loving
then shames him well enough
to cease such childishness
and goes back to sucking her fingers
caudling her doll
he resigns his kisses to my cheeks
snuggles his head into the curve of my free arm
slides his finger under my nightshirt
presses it into the slight “y”
of my belly button
like he’s pointing home
Latchkey
1.
Eve home
after school
closes blinds then strips near nude
giggles on
the phone
2.
Eve's mama
calls her
twelve going
on twenty-four
men come sniffing
3.
they notice
her now
adolescence
absorbed in
hips wide
for birthing
4.
she likes
attention
mama
chides finger waves high
points long
and away
5.
Eve rolls her
eyes
smacks teeth
against thumb resting
between
suckling lips
6.
Men wait 'til
mama
washes shops leaves her latchkey
locked in and
open
the other
night
they slept in
other beds
other shoes
and clothes
strewn around
their other rooms
with other
chests of other toys
other shelves
lined with other books
in their other
house
on that other
street where
their dad and
that other woman
share with
them
the other
kisses
that are not
mine
the talk
do you think you’ll have another baby?
if so, does that mean you’re gonna have sex
again?
smirk simmering at the corners of her mouth
my daughter knows it has something to do
with sex, which she knows
between herself and her brother
has happened at least two times in my life
and she knows because she’s been here before
here, to some version of this question
and, i am certain, here, to some version of this
life
where i must negotiate truth and her being nine
she likes to watch me squirm
through the foreignism of birds and bees
language i never learned from “the talk”
i never had, like other girls
endear / endure with parents
she pushes me through the challenge to redefine
my understanding of what sex is
as learned from knuckle-headed boys or
prepubescent girls who were passing on what some
father/brother/cousin/mother’s
boyfriend/aunt/neighbor/family acquaintance
had already stolen
it is the fire of knowing she craves
the center piece of this puzzle she’s worked on
since she became aware of victoria’s secret
commercials
remarriage and the boy at table five in the
cafeteria
i don’t think i’ll have anymore babies, i
finally tell her
kissing her forehead with a knowing look
you and your brother are quite enough.
she skips away, satisfied that i’ve answered her
question
i am relieved that she’s gone and not asking
if that means I will not be having more sex
