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Motherhood

Juanita Rey

Motherhood?
Lose whatever shape I have?
Open my purse
and drop all my coins down the drain?

Down goes the ass,
up go the milk-filled boobs
and my stomach protrudes
into unchartered territory.

And what does it do for my dance steps?
And my education?
I’ll be teaching the child stuff
I don’t even know myself.
And my sleep?
It’ll kick and then it’ll cry.
It could even be twins.
Double the kicking.
Double the tears.

I’d have to feed a hungry mouth
before I satisfy my own.
And change the kid
into something neat and clean
while I am dressed as sloppy
as the homeless.

My cat will leave.
My plants will die.
I’ll be out of fashion
before I ever was in.
I’m too young before.
I’ll be too old after.
And, in between,
lies my sexless hair,
my scolding voice,
my vagina drooping
like my mother’s jaw.

Motherhood?
I can’t even imagine it.
A thumb with eyelashes?
A lump with toes?
And that’s just me I’m talking about.

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