it’s me
my brain
my insecurities
i’m distracted by life
and bills
and how jiggly my gut is
and whether my jeans make me look fat
or if i’m screwing up my kids
can i be
a mother and a writer
a wife and a poet
a woman and an activist
using the personal as political
or do i have to choose?

every morning
i wake up
thank my Lord
kiss my kids
flutter my lashes at my man
stretch and kick and twist and reach
on my purple mat on the floor
pour some cereal
pack a lunch
and make a cup of tea
there’s dishes to do
baths to run
floors to sweep
and crayon to clean
off the wall
and then

only now
my brain is full
and my legs hurt
and my feet are swollen
and my voice is raw
from yelling “sit down”
“don’t do that”
“will you STOP?”

and my characters weep
because their stories remain

i thought of a poem
you see
about clouds and trees
and peace and dreams
and the view
i see from my window
but a child came in
and asked for toys
and lunch
and permission to run outside
in the rain

and i got distracted

and went to play


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