Cleaning the Playroom: A PMS Poem.
On thousands of sheets of paper you scribble
unicorns with two horns, women with balloon breasts, houses with smiling windows
sticks with jagged hair, triangle skirts, and elongated arms with four-fingered hands.
Your name skirts across the bottom like a slick rock on the skin of a lake.
Your five-year-old name.
crooked, ignorant of upper and lower-case mingling
free from form.
My heart sinks to the bottom of me
knowing this moment can never
still,
knowing time will soon spool away from me
from us
from the two little stick girls clinging to their mommy’s four fingers.
