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Wednesday, April 11, 2018

Tired Poem

I'm touchy & suctioning milk out of my boobs while
eating popcorn and writing a poem. Please don't
say this poem is evidence of a life lived. Put your warm
hands on my eyes and face and press. I want
to tell you how much I pumped and strategize
about how to pump more. What I want is
basic & I don't want to know about the revolution.
The revolution is too glamorous, and I'm the
reason the revolution will fail. I want to know
when your baby started to drink less milk. I mean I'm
not glamorous enough for the revolution. What is reason
and what is reasonable. The way HR talks about anything.
Here is a term and here is a term. In conversation,
I say, "There is a term you used to say X but I can't
remember what it was exactly and don't know if
you really said X." And HR stares. They tell you to
email them. They email others about your email. 

1 comment:

Radish King said...

These poems are so viscerally slamming me back to the time when my son was an infant. Thank you.
Rebecca