It’s not the mother in the cereal aisle I fear human jungle gym to three babies who cry tip boxes onto the linoleum floor the four of them so tired so far beyond what is reasonable her arm lifting ready to swing wide that right hand of hers palming the most garden variety annihilation I am childless aren’t the childless always better mothers my mother says she kept her cool she learned to receive our demands check her steno pad & say sorry it’s not on the list today sorry no frosted-mini-count-choco- puffs the list says raisin bran she answered questions managed want gamely accepted all comers our cast-off hard-faced dolls our sweat-through coats our breathless reports all those &-then-&-then’s our father’s mono- tone complaints this afternoon at the cookout a 4-year-old runs the short grassy lane per the rules of a made-up game shrieking the whole way from the hose to the table where the adults gather my friend her mama beside me interrupts herself to gaze approvingly at the small hands offered miraculous & wet mama doesn’t fret over wet salmon OshKosh the wet feet pressing into then sucking out of the doomed iridescent sneakers her smile reaches lavishly her eyes her lips paused on a thought she has learned the trick of suspension my friend is holding wet objects in her hands a dark rock a garden statuette of a toad a tiny stick bursting green with buds my most patient nodding mother didn’t you teach me a woman must receive receive I wouldn’t hold any of it I couldn’t how she terrifies me this mama her easy & efficient love I can’t remember your eyes even when you said no you must have looked just like her
