I birthed a lotus  in rare form—
Ringlet petals,
orchid like dimples on gorged cheeks

Then one day I looked in the mirror and all I saw was mud
Dark grit under finger nails
A mom that double checks automatic payment notices and
“Goes to the bathroom” just to breathe into her ribs
I ache to be the garden.
I am the manure.
The pathetic reality tv show at midnight
I am the fiction book that I used to gobble up as I did nonfiction for thirty minutes
Digest to remind myself of the masters degree kind of woman
I used to be
The woman who used to be able to dialogue and synagogue and debate and have an adjective for everything
Here I am.
soil. and clam. and contrite.
With nothing but seeds in between my teeth

WEEDS.

A worship or a song or a conversation waiting to be watered.

These days all that grow are EOB’s, needy blue bubbles going unanswered: conversation flies that don’t flinch when you swat at them.
An empty canvas.

I slam the door just to feel my pulse again
I see him kiss her forehead with so much more love than he has for me
I see my heart breaking skin
I see myself as sludge.
Baby blooms
Daddy dances
Mother wilts.