In the society of anxious mothers
How easy it is to slip into old habits.
How easy it is to slip into old lies.
She tells me about her son, his prostitution.
I write nothing down. I have nothing
to give her that’s full or empty, just
reassurance. I hint and I hem and I haw.
I don’t even know how to haw.
Her boy, her beautiful boy, & she’d given him
all a boy could there’s love, and then
there’s this line. I can’t help but think
of mine and mine. And me: I’m so
introverted that way. Turned inside out
so all my pieces shine. No, glisten.
She’s as raw as I, but won’t say so.
I won’t speak a line. These children, tied
as they are to our bodies, pricking apart
innards like scribes. No, scriveners. No:
prognosticate, procrastinate, read the guts and tea
to see the what’s mine? I don’t know.
I have no words for her. Not mine,
not hers, not wry homunculi we birthed
and named into this world. I’ve lied,
again and again. She’s cried, but lies about it.