All I Am is a Mom

I noticed the majority of your poems are about being a wife

and a mother said a man who reads my poetry

ah, yes, I write what I know, I responded, silently annoyed

            with his feedback since that is where his feedback ended 

which is kinda funny because it occurred to me last Saturday

when lounging on the unswept patio of my favorite dive 

with 5 other moderately-buzzed middle-aged women

who were talking over each other and almost squabbling

but not really since we were all saying the same thing 

-in fact one guy came out to the patio

and turned right around saying turkeys clucking-

         but the thing we were clucking about 

the thing over which we were sharing drink and smoke about

         was the never-ending topic of our children  

how to best love them and how to best navigate 

         a world that accepts some and not others 

a world whose evil shifts like sand beneath our feet

          a world that will critique us 

for talking too much about our children

          a world that will critique us 

for not talking enough about our children 

          for being too uptight for being untethered

and what are your priorities, anyway, woman 

          are they in that pack of smokes 

do they rest at the bottom of that bottle 

and why are you here should you not be

at home prettily tending to all the tending-to

         and as dusk settles in our hair

and the sound of women gabbing is carried on the wind 

         those that hear it and think turkeys clucking  

do not understand this is how we have a hand 

         in controlling the circulation of love 

this is how we keep our necks off the chopping block 

        and when the night is over we sink into the passenger seat 

and smile at our bright knives newly sharpened

        before tucking them away

near the gum the tampons the diapers the meds

the many keys attached to a single ring