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ball’s in my court. What
do I do? Serve? Volley?
Concede? I want to be a
good mom. I don’t want
to be a mom at all. But
what choice do I have?
Hunter coos and drools
sweet-smelling baby spit,
and I stroke his soft,
soft cheeks. “Mommy loves
you, Hunter.” I really do,
and he loves me, too,
with a purity that makes
my eyes sting. What have
I done? And more: What
will I continue to do?
Eventually
Watching dust motes play
in the afternoon light,
Hunter drifts off. I know
Mom et al will be home soon,
which gives me a small window
of opportunity to hook up with
the monster one last time.
I step out onto the patio, where,
shielded from the westerly
breeze, I can easily take a toke
and let the evidence escape
into the lengthening shadows.
Denying any earlier sense
