balasana (child’s pose)

she carries it in her hips:

an emotion

a longing the length unfurled
of the lined rings in sequoias

she carries it
with his intent
(sometimes
without permission)
in between

and through her lovers,
she carries it further
(sometimes her lover,
she carries it, too)
and resists that it sag down
or topple out

she notices it
when walking,
stubborn and obese
by the way others call out
and stalk or gaze
and fade away

sometimes she drags it
through
the largest widening
making room for
another in pain

she carries it
in a baby’s cry,
feels it against
her babe’s thighs

she carries it
whether she is called
mom or jane or
any self-given name

and it only rests
knees to chest
in the privacy
of the couch corner
or the bathroom sink

it funnels
to the crease of the paused book
when she’s done
being a woman for the day

when she can release
it,
shrinking slender into
the not-so-heavy
flanks of a girl

even alone,
what a woman carries
is not only hers

but of everyone she loved
and looked at
that day, that year
in all times, both
in fruitful deliverings
and arrivals unheard

okay, cupid

I keep asking,
where do the flowers come from?
a single girl could only wish
after the 9 to 5
to arrive home to a table flocked with flowers,
but in this house
there are 5 of us
and in this house
we sleep alone in queen-sized beds
on faux fur (“vegan”) cloud nines,
jungle musk surrounding us,
a salubrious mix of sage cleansing,
sex positivity and dirty dishes

you could say we are the queens here,
each reigning her own lonely corner
whether she fills it with stuffed animal jesters
or loyal empty-chinese-takeout subjects,
if she chooses sex over sleep
or sleep over sex
and makes a lot of noise during each
is clearly up to her,
she pays the rent she owns the space

but please, honey, close your door for once
privacy is not always a luxury, but a courtesy
in her double helix, momma gifted me OCD,
have you ever heard of microchimerism?

I’m sorry I woke you up at 5am
I was mopping your coffee spills off the floors
someone’s gotta do it
and my whites won’t get any whiter,
no matter how hot I run the water
so no worries over the electric bill making us broker
than our millennial upbringing already set us up for
the only rule in fem-land is we don’t moan about college loans
(but for everything else, it is encouraged)

plus there is more energy used in flicking the lights off and on,
you would save more money
if you weren’t a statistic
what I mean is, did you know female twenty-somethings consume the most wine?

we’re each our own flavor of anxious,
deciding if we should work on our linkedin page or
smoke a bowl on the porch (yes, in front of the children)
and go to the hills for some fresh air
how about we find a protest?
or go out for some overpriced tapas and mojitos for once
like all the other young professionals?

those flowers, by the way, they’re for me
from some hopeful
I can’t remember his or her or their name