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.