I threw my back out reaching for the knife to cut the waffles for my kid before school. My kid’s a teen already but still scared of the closet. I’m not one to talk. I scramble up the stairs at night when the living room goes dark. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t hold on to the things that make my kid a kid? I let go of my own dreams, settled for the middle of the choir, though I wanted to be a rock star. Did you know some butterflies have air in the veins in their wings? My kid learned that in seventh grade, along with some introductory Spanish. I’ve been to Spain, where I could understand everything said to me but couldn’t form a sentence of my own out of nothing. Each night I open the door to affirm the composition of the closet— more empty space than axe murderer. Could I fight off an axe with this kitchen injury and my bad wrist from lugging the laundry? My idol is a glam rocker in makeup and platform heels. He reminds me I’d wanted to live a creative life. These days, why bother with lipstick? I pour syrup on the same breakfast my kid has eaten since preschool. My brain is air. The heaviest thing in my body is my heart. At a party years ago, I sang one song with a band and they rushed the bridge into the final verse. I didn’t even get to sing all the words I knew. Each night, I tuck my kid in bed though tucking isn’t welcomed anymore. I’m reprimanded for making sure the quilt is pressed between the mattress and the wall. But if I let the cold get in, then tell me what kind of mother would I be?
Cynthia Marie Hoffman is the author of four collections of poetry, most recently the OCD memoir in prose poems, Exploding Head. She is the recipient of fellowships from the Wisconsin Institute for Creative Writing, Civitella Ranieri Foundation, and the Wisconsin Arts Board. She has essays in TIME, The Sun, Lit Hub, and elsewhere, and poems in Electric Literature, The Believer, The Los Angeles Review, and elsewhere. Cynthia lives in Madison, WI. See cynthiamariehoffman.com.
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Powerful poem, Cynthia!
Truth.