An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English.
As always, when I flip through the universe I am
bewildered at all this becoming, Mars hit puberty and Venus is
cradling my third child, made of many moons, and the babe has
desecrated the softness of me, just ripped me apart.
Even before his muscles rose, he destroyed me, can you believe it? I
forgave him! I resisted the anger walking towards me.
Given that I am not well-versed in matters of family, I
have been hitting the baby books, the ones warning against
isolation, but encouraging us to breastfeed out in the world, mirroring your child.
Judge not the single mothers, people! I raise up my many-mooned babe,
kicking naysayers to the ground and I walk toward the
light of his healthy adolescence.
Might I suggest, child, talking in a foreign language for a while,
negate the loneliness of your one-voiced tongue. I teach my
one-and-only how to curse out every universe. While our many
pets float around, the only loves of my children. I start homeschooling.
Question every hard thing around you, ask what it's protecting. I'm
really having a go at motherhood now. I
say to myself, this is the opening of a galaxy I'm foreign to.
Today I am being destroyed by a beast child, but tomorrow I'll
uneducate his animalism. I'll feed him mangoes I've chewed
very slowly, to put my essence into the fruit flesh for him.
While sirens and comets are exploding, I'll calm him. Not with
Xanax but with plucked pinecones now like little planets. I tell him,
You never can guess the softness we can achieve by hand. And
zipper up, kiddo. We're in this together 'til the skies collapse.
Sarah May is living in Dallas, Texas. She received an MFA in Poetry from Arcadia University. Her work has been published in Bluepepper Literature Review, The Mondegreen, and Fearsome Critters Arts Journal.