Sleep Deprivation
Motherhood is putting a sock in it.
Putting a sock on it.
Motherhood is The Great Sock Hunt.
Curtains, pulling them.
Invisible warpaths my feet beat every day
but such little wars.
Motherhood is a visor I can’t take off.
Kids’ TV show voice actors squeaking
and scrambling, the little
ha-has, merciless upward inflections.
Motherhood is a duststorm.
I tie scarves over our mouths and noses,
I yell close the door!
I see motes in the air, regardless.
The inside of my mouth, nose,
is dry with fine layers
of careful work,
fast work.
I walk across the yard as my daughter calls me
and I know I will stay inside, now, and start dinner.
My head is a balloon
that wants to find its new form
in those cumulonimbus up there,
oh this sky. How wide it is.
How like an enormous bowl of light and cloud.
But with a hole in the unseeable center—
if I loosed myself like a blue balloon
I would roll,
find a center,
fall out.
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