Mother Talks to Herself Before Hunting Her Children
There's no need to investigate kindness. You were
never a there, there back patter. You melted their
coloring sticks to the carpet and they trailed radishes
that ended at a pile of fortified bobcat poop.
They knew you were a witch before you told them.
For the first born, you wished her never to suffer illness.
Then you wanted all of them sick with fever so you could
wipe their sweaty arms below the blankets. The oldest
cared for them and you watched her from your mind,
wringing a cloth in cold water, resting to knit more cloths,
humming tunes you never taught her. You laughed
when you saw their little panties hung on the laundry line,
wind bobbing elastic legs-holes like a xylophone.
Everyone who thinks babies solve loneliness is wrong.
You washed your face with menstrual blood
until they caught you. Once they ran away, you realized
they were what you wanted all along. You had perfect people,
but you were biting the heads off, well, it doesn't matter.
Your daughters never needed you even when you forced them.