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On Home


All winter long my sons have pointed guns
in my face and with their mouths popped

the triggers. The oldest wants to spoon me.
The youngest wants to change his name

to the playground pimp. When we circle up
for dinner, I’m careful not to say chicken breast

or meatball or anything they can follow with
that’s what she said. Consider the going rate

for hormones, then picture an eager group
of eBay bidders. I joke, but someone should

tell these boys—in a wake of black mascara,
mothers drive away. All winter long I’ve left

feel-good Post-its on the bathroom mirror,
the espresso maker, the edge of my razor.

Every day, I’ve given myself reasons to stay.



Posted 12/10/10
This poem first appeared in The Hollins Critic.
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