Mother’s Dilemma
This is a selection from our Summer 2023 issue, “Stay”.
I come home with a candle tucked
in my purse. Jake’s in the kitchen,
he looks up. I say, all this might be worse
with a daughter. SoHo, where I just was,
is so crowded with money, there’d be
no place for empty bottles, a stray sock,
which I know my baby, whoever she is,
would slip from her little foot, leave discarded
on a subway grate. Would a passing train
raise it up like an autumn leaf—would we
find it? Is this what we want:
a daughter gamboling between
sport coats, stiff-tongued shoes, caverned
and clacking; for her to treat men
like rocks on a jetty—don’t slip, step
around them, say excuse me—always
both a part and apart from them?
Is there a love we couldn’t have
without her? We talk, watch the news,
light the candle. Everything flickers cobalt
or gold against the long stretch of blank wall.
He rests his head on my stomach,
listens for active limbs, that eager,
kicking foot. There’s nothing in me now
or yet. We haven’t decided. Yet
still, I sting for something as I lie
beside him. What it is, we are
too tired to dream.
