All I Am is a Mom

I noticed the majority of your poems are about being a wife

and a mother said a man who reads my poetry

oh yes, I write what I know, I said, silently annoyed

            with his feedback since that is where his feedback ended 

and it occurred to me last Saturday when sitting 

           on the unswept patio of my favorite dive 

with 5 other buzzed middle-aged women

who were talking over each other and almost squabbing

but not really since we were all saying the same thing 

          but in that big and rowdy way of trying

to be heard in a loud conversation full of feels 

in fact one guy came and left

saying turkeys clucking

         but the thing we were clucking about 

the thing over which we were sharing drink and smoke about

         was the never-ending topic of our children  

how to best love them and how to best navigate 

         a world that accepts some and not others 

a world whose evil shifts like sand beneath your feet

          a world that will critique you 

for talking too much about your children

          a world that will critique you 

for not talking enough about your children 

          for being too uptight for being untethered

and what are your priorities, anyway, woman 

         are they in that pack of smokes 

do they rest at the bottom of that bottle 

and why are you here should you not be

at home prettily tending to all the tending to

        and as dusk settles in our hair

and the sound of women gabbing is carried on the wind 

        those that hear it and think turkeys clucking  

do not understand this is how we have a hand 

        in controlling the circulation of love 

this is how we keep our necks off of the chopping block 

       and when the night is over we sink into the passenger seat 

and smile at our bright knives newly sharpened

       before tucking them away

near the gum the tampons the diapers the meds

the many keys attached to a single ring