is write little books,
is what I heard the husband of a friend say once.
that's all she does, all day he said and she laughed
and I nodded and felt my shoulders sink and remembered her laugh
as I sat on the floor, or at tiny desks,
writing on a broken laptop while three children under seven
tugged at my hair and begged me to play and feed, all day, every day
while my husband worked away.
all I do is write little books, I smiled and politely agreed,
and reminded myself and others that this little cozy hobby
was really such a luxury as I dealt with a fallen mind and lost babies
and feeling isolated in a country that
amplified what it really was, to feel utterly lonely.
I washed my hands of these comments
as often as I washed my children's beautiful faces
starting fresh every single time, wishing I could tell people
these little books are all I have, they are all mine
they keep me company at night when I feel I've lost everything
and maybe I'm even running out of time
and my fingers curl around my pen, as I imagine the cozy couples
smiling with bright white teeth that turn into fangs at night
you're right, I smile back, my fist curled tight.
Be careful what I'll write.