(mothers)

I hear the mother
women in the cafe,
the ones who wear
their hair short
and talk to everyone
with faux support.
They wear Bass sandals
and Bermuda shorts,
the sporty duds I always
despised. They keep their kitchen
counters clean, never complain
of doing the same
thing every day.
Their conversations orchestrating
lives, through try-outs and
rehearsals. I clench my jaws
to their cheery tone. They don’t
give birth, but create an empire,
standing on their children’s
back to adjust their husband’s
tie,
spreading peanut butter on
square-shaped sandwich bread,
which they will slice diagonally
with a serrated knife.

4/27/99