My mouth wanders like a circus performer

town to town

hawking the sideshow,

sullen dancing girls.

I moan:

my children keep growing!

No babies left for me

to coddle, spoon-feed, bathe.

I hate myself

for mentioning my husband’s fat.

When adolescent, I spilled

each soft detail of love affairs—

her lips, his eyes—

and too much of my body,

things I would never

want you to know now.

My children rustle in their beds

plump as pillows,

and somewhere

South of here, a hungry mother

scoops cornmeal with a piece of chipped cup

into the mouth of her listless child.

Dear Friend, help me!

I pull my hand up to my face

and press my mouth shut.

There is so much