When I was pregnant with you
all that progesterone made me radiate heat
like a boiled
steaming cob of corn.
I was so hot and angry I just sat in bed
visualizing volcanic eruption
compiling a mental list of anyone who
ever wronged me.
But somewhere in this fever dream
you appeared one night by a cool lake
we stood
eyes locked and laughing.
Just cracking up
as if this latest incarnation of yours
was our big idea
our brilliant inside joke.
I eat a lot of pastries in a lot of cafes
with you—immaculate cafe baby
charming and observant
like your radical grandfather.
They see our caravan coming
marked by the large wooden spoon
you brandish from the stroller
like a divining rod searching for coffee.
OMG is that a wooden spoon
the avant-garde baristas fawn
and I hope they know
I’m also avant-garde I swear just not right now.
Right now I’m an American STAY AT HOME, MOM
I take you on three stroller walks a day
to eat hundreds of scones
and scroll social media while you nap.
My secret is I paise God for it
the cool girl coos and capochinos—half caff
enough to walk home in bliss
but still sleep at night.
The waning moon detaches her full glory
with such poise
a small sliver lost each day.
Does she find this death devastatingly slow?
No, the moon says
she has practice.
And there is nothing to speed this process
of becoming nothing
to become new.
The young dads are afraid
to make eye contact with me
in this well-to-do neighborhood
not like the older men
with lots of money
and nothing to lose
very available eyes
I avoid to incur good karma
when the time comes
when I'm an old wife
with an old husband
(with lots of money?) and nothing to lose.
But the young fathers and young mothers
feel how fragile this is
and we want to be exemplary
after witnessing the miracle of life
we try to heal
dopamined minds
and scrub the porn we watched
as teens
or yesterday.
Young fathers, please see me
as a person and a friend
I’ve never been in an actual orgie or even a threesome
and I bet nobody here has either.
That’s not what I want.
All I want
is to look into your eyes and smile.
What the hell happened? Where were the revolutionaries?
Purchasing the fuchsia Galentine's Day Stanley cup to complete her collection.
Working paycheck to paycheck in a land rewritten for kings.
Chatting alone in his room with sexbots for three hours.
Raising two kids without any help.
Kept in retirement homes.
But what the hell happened? Where were the revolutionaries?
Visualizing ascension into the 1%.
Manifesting an old money aesthetic.
Getting botox and kybella and juvederm.
Corrupt power spreads fast and strong like a urinary tract infection when you don’t take care of yourself. It is relentless and burning like the United States military or some other military.
It makes you want to just
sit on the toilet
and scroll Instagram.
Not all the men are handsome
but most of them look mean
By the pool under Florida sun
Not all the women are perfect
but most have lip injections
They swear they do it for them.
My savior (a man my dad’s age)
holds the door as everyone else ignores us
I’ve been a parent, he says
I know how it is.
The stroller clunks through
halfway now
but the hipster with the half-and-half
is blocking our successful breach.
Excuse me, I apologize
and he shoots a sideeye
sharp enough to banish us back
to baby storytime in the suburbs.
I get it.
Our presence is less graceful
and less cool
and less free
and less revolutionary.
And it’s OK he doesn’t understand.
Because I know he’s never
brushed your hair
with the tiniest soft bristle brush
while you sip peach juice out of a jar.
Your middle name is Khalil because that’s what your poet grandfather changed his name to when he converted to Islam and started a family in Ohio valley woods.
Raised chickens and two girls
by a donkey field with rolling hills.
I told classmates my middle name (Amina) was Hawaiian because on no planet, except for your grandfathers, did Perry County and Islam co-exist.
But Hawaii? Patably exotic
with its hula dancers and sea turtles.
Your poet grandfather yelled and cursed when he was hurt when he was young but it’s not like that anymore. Today while you played outside with Yai he cried three times while talking about Palestine and for a heated flash I understood.
How entire generations can hurl lives to retribution
for the tears of their fathers.
But Khalil means friend because this is the way. With a Muslim grandfather, Buddhist-curious mother, and ephemerally Christian father in a mostly Jewish neighborhood, believe me when I say there’s no pressure to adhere.
The soul of a friend reaches over and under
barbed dividing lines
sticking to our skin like weeds.
You won’t earn right livelihood
as a paid media specialist or growth hacker
a digital sales manager or performance marketer.
From the Buddhist perspective, I mean!
What sog our minds become
in this endless, hellish reel
where even positive affirmation becomes attachment—
Anxious, in my case.
The algorithm loves the illusion
loves the addiction
and targets me with
Cheating husbands caught in 4K.
But I still give it what it wants
and post my beautiful baby
with a heart emoji blocking his face
To keep the perverts away.
If it makes you feel better
influencers aren’t any closer to enlightenment
they (the Buddhists) say fame burns up your karma
so fast unless you live so right to replenish it.
Which I doubt any of us are
taking refuge in dopamine.
For Andy
On my 735th stroller walk
the wind blows softly
but consistently
from all sides
like a hug from beyond.
You left this Earth without telling me.
I found out months later
Googling your name
because you never responded
to my email
about how I gave birth.
The obituary made my bedroom spin
my baby and I
the way shock makes one aware
we're all shimmer powder
here whirling.
But what about you
was that you in the wind today?
So I must have given birth after you passed
after the contractions had me scrunched
and hyper-focused
on how the sizzling meat looked
at a Korean barbecue party.
But what about the hospital television?
How it flickered on and off
somewhere in labor's 14th hour.
Was that you in the corner
with me in my fear?