The Mothers
We must be
the inviolate
petals, always
queering to-
ward the sun,
must be water
on the lips of
flaming cities,
quenching
the husbands,
insatiable. These
days the abdomen
blossoms, but
we must be
boneless, edible
fish. We must
beg for bouquets
for absent sons.
This is how we
know devotion:
listening to lovers
sleep, breathing
like monster trucks,
wanting to soothe
them when the dream
is done. We march
the sinking avenues,
finger the curls
at the baby’s neck,
hanging from
the brink at
office hour,
gulping Xanax
in their white
oblong shells.
Cities can sleep
but we can never.
Vigilant animals
on our hands and
knees, asking for
it again and again.
Source: Poetry (July/August 2019)