the problem with dick

i am of no real use
to him
or anyone else for that matter
as this poetry had taken hold
in my 30’s
now
i’m a traveling saleswoman

save my sons
but they came before
motherhood is my
pre-existing condition

what he fails to understand
is that i’ve seen the riggings and ropes
behind the curtain
i have torn the veil away from this life
and i have no need for the other side of the bed
to be warm

i’m a solitary creature
i prefer to be alone
i never pick up the phone
and i’m tired of fucking

because
the problem with dick
is that they usually have a needy man attached

no i won’t wear white
didn’t care for it the first two times

nor do i wish to incubate
his
never had a child
inside my womb
so his life will feel more complete
at the cost of my insides and mind
strung out bloody across a birthing table

do i have a sign on my head
that announces me the virgin mary

it must be the tits
and the hips suggesting
this woman is a baby factory

yeah, so what
i can hammer em out two at a time
in matching sets
but

i will never purchase another cookie jar
or have a chubby fingered baby
to break it despite being told no
a thousand times

no i prefer this near feeling
of single-mother-at-the-finish-line
completion

this coffee
this bourbon
the book i’m reading
and where my boys plan to go to college
it’s all i need

leave me be

so he cancels his travel plans
and concedes
i am no longer worth the drive

and i am relieved

as i sit waiting
for my old cat to die