We sat on the porch that night, inhaling the dense salt air to exhale it again
Listening to the rhythmic crash of the waves past the dune
Graciously serving each other the generous helpings reserved for dearest friends
I could see, almost touch, snippets of words as they danced around our heads
Handing off and handing off and handing off again
A bit too warm, a bit flushed (a bit, or more, tipsy)
Like resting in a plush safe dumpling - don’t mind the sweet, sticky sweat -
I listened as the others wailed and gnashed their teeth over children growing up
I listened from outside myself
From inside myself
From atop my tower of trash dressed in ribbons and Lysol
Nodding along silently, thin lips stretched into my best approximation of smile-bedecked grimace
Me the half- (quarter-) mother
Inside-me’s diaphragm ballooning for the next rasping grating shriek no one will ever hear
I want to feel that too
Is a mother who’s not really a mother even a mother?
Because mothers who aren’t really mothers certainly don’t feel like mothers
They feel like gaping wounds and stones at the same time
The pitying look like a hatchet
And so I bury the gauze and the satchel as best I can - not very well, I know -
Anything to stave off the next inevitable blow
My tears
The pitying look
I stuff it down
My tears
The pitying look
I stuff it down
My tears
The pitying look
The warm hug as my arms dangle at my sides and I close my eyes over a thousand-yard stare
I stuff it down
I stuff it down
I stuff it down
So that when the next sinkhole opens I may not slip into it