The Mothers

Can someone please tell my Facebook memories
to STFU? Can someone stop me from internet stalking
the bratty pink-cheeked bitches who ruined my life
in sixth grade? I found one—she’s a mother now,
which feels unfair when I’m injecting hormones
into my wife to make a pregnancy stick. Karma,
a powerful myth I believe in order to live. Last night
the dog disappeared into the drenched darkness
of our backyard, my rinky-dink flashlight hardly enough
to uncover the shimmer of her brindles as she bolted—
as if to say: Thanks for all the kibble and toys and
the tenderness, but I’m done. A scream of NO
yanked itself from my throat, a frayed telephone wire
shorn by tornado wreckage. It was the clearest sign yet
that a mother might exist in me. L takes the morning shift,
up for belly rubs and breakfast while I dip a toe back
into the foam of a dream. More often than not, the first
thing I do when I wake up is click the godforsaken photo
beneath the godforsaken text that reads Nicole,
Facebook cares about you and your memories.
I take the night shift because I’m awake anyway
and always have been. Two episodes into whatever
we’re rewatching this week and everyone passes out,
my unexpected, astonishing little world on pause until
it’s time for bed. Can someone please tell my dog
to close her eyes while she sleeps? It’s unsettling,
how they roll, brown all the way to the double eyelids
as she suckles the night air, swims in a dream shaped
like her mother. When I rouse her for a final walk,
she dismisses me with a grunt, swivels prickly piles
of skin to eschew my hands—as if to say: Enough already
with your tedious love. What else is out there for me?