There are mornings, disordered but soaked in clarity.
French perhaps, Italian perhaps, I wanted and was confused.
I’ve yearned in my sleep for architecture and love.
In the mirror, I was tired of my breasts,
Of spatulas and spoons ladling food for offspring.
I’ve flipped grilled cheese with chewed, dried nipples.
I didn’t want to be a burdened woman legislated.
My breasts had fallen, like angels kicked by God.
Three children and they sucked at the tit like kittens.
Oh, mama lunch please, now mama, lunch.
Once they were pleasure orbs.
Things to spill and ooze like putty in warm hands.
Once they were encased in lace and silk.
I was tired of being a woman.
Coddling teenagers with acne and attitude.
Shower fresh, staring at the breasts in the mirror.
You will never walk Rome in a Hermes scarf,
And sit coyly by a fountain fawned over by tourists.
You will never order an omelet and Beaujolais,
In a café in Paris, with breasts tacked high.
You will live out your days in this subdued suburb,
One day after another and another,
A marathon walk that goes no further than the city gates.
