What world do you speak of
That fetishizes the mother
And turns it’s back on the infant
Pursing
Suckling
Like a bee on a Carmellia in
July

What is inside of me that hasn’t
Already been emptied?
Do you every wonder,
Why, we mothers
Bake our children cookies
Only to wrap our heads in cloth?

And our husbands,
God rest their souls,
Will burn down the walls
To put out the fire