Funny man,
not so tiny anymore,
dancing by the ribcage,
feet rapping my hips,
is this what you want – to stretch
into my limbs?
You’d dance then more fully:
mom would be your
big puppet.
You’d squash me, then mold me
in your image.
Would I want you to wiggle out?
But at least then I’d know
what you are doing, darling,
rather than lie in the liquid, knocking
darkness, half-guessing
what a circus it is to be Mother,
what roles we will play for each other:
when the cord is cut, such battles are fought,
such cheap comedies played—then, how soon the night!
When we are separate people,
we will think this
duet had been simple:
me, just a skirt with a flounce,
curling and uncurling around
your sleeping and breathing dances.
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