10/18/24
I see our names on checks in black and white
an address peers below
a simple home of warmth and light
that everyone would know.
I wonder—
would your name place first then
or would mine there too rest.
A sign of times and upward climbs.
Ha.
Mine would fall
behind.
If life would take me
drive away
with you to every day
I alone would then regret.
Domestic job-like punishment.
I was born to cook and clean.
I was born to sew.
I was born to
“bear your seed.”
My body dies
and grows.
Little Sarah played with dolls.
Little Sarah cried.
“I am mommy’s little doll—
this one now is mine.”
Growing up to stockings
Evolving to lace.
Maturation takes its place
a doll is soon replaced.
Rocking baby up and down
Swinging baby low
Little crosses line the row
Of presents dead and slow.
What could I give you but another.
What is really mine to take.
Why am I to be a mother.
Somehow I don’t wake.
