Queen-sized Bed
I save all of my mother’s voicemails,
just in case. That’s no way to live,
bracing for Armageddon, but
motherhood burns and burns
out. I always thought I was too selfish
to have kids, Mom would say
as a punchline, passing me
her bread and wine.
In Sevilla, there’s this cathedral
with a portrait of the Virgin Mary. I cried
when I first saw her because she looked
so scared. Earlier, a Google search: “morning
after pill in Spanish.” The pharmacist,
handing it to me, said to take it
with something in my stomach. Women who don’t become
mothers were always too hungry, anyway.
In front of gorging clouds,
Mary’s slim body balances
on some sliver moon. Each one of
Mom’s messages, a lost gospel.