Momu Monsters

Written August 2021

I am more monster than mother these days.
Snakes circling my hair.
Turning all this shit to stone.

I unleash a terrible shriek in the kitchen:
Look! This is the scream for labor. Hear this! This is the scream for terror.

Open the mouth and let it out for all the womxn before.
Because they are still screaming.

I howl:
While loading and unloading the dishwasher.

I screech:
While cleaning up the cat hair, stuck Play-Doh on the table, sweeping crumbs from pizza and a hot dog hardened.

I scream:
While delegating task after task after task, making mental notes of my mental health as I schedule doctor appointments and stare at piles of laundry and the bills need paid and what can be delayed until next month, the teaching and reaching and the wiping butts and snotty noses and infinite number of ways that one gives gives gives gives gives it all away runnin’ on empty, and where is the money owed to us for all of this invisible load, no one knows.

I growl:
While turning on the oven to 425 degrees for french toast sticks going in for 13 minutes.

I moan:
While the day has just begun and it’s been nearly 18 months (longer still) of unrelenting feral response to the preventable response of mass death and callous indifference. 24/7 caregiving (Don’t even start about how it’s my fault I had kids) is not sustainable, parenting without social safety nets is not sustainable, burning brightly and going quietly seems to be society’s solution.

Oh! But the milk is expired again / Like my patience.

To hint at the suggestion that I have gone mad is such a lazy way to call me an educated womxn / A philosopher / A witch / A siren / A sower of dreams / An artist / A mother / A knower / Spinning salt into metal / Turning tears into beans / Planting each one before sunrise.

There is nothing wrong with me.
All I know is the carrion call in the sky.
As I pour my blood into this mug.
Press it to my wanting lips.
And slug it down hard.