My mother tries to come up with something new for dinner
each night of the week, and sometimes I think that this
is the saddest phase of her existence-having to choose between
cheese pizza, or pizza with mushrooms and garlic.
At night I dream of men that undress women like unwrapping
a gift, and use their hands as colored tissue paper,
so gentle and soft you could swoon at their touch.
But my mother is the one who kept two extra boyfriends
when she was a teenager, the second a spare to the first,
the third a backup for the second. I am not accepting of loneliness
unless it comes to me first; I am the kind of girl
who treats men like pieces on an art museum wall,
the ones that the curators keep in the storage room
because they’re too rare and even the slighest oil
from a thumbprint could damage them beyond repair.
Mother, forgive me for treating my body like a tourniquet
when heartbreak was not enough
to staunch the blood flow. I love Starbucks
just as much as the next person, but you were addicted
to lovers like a tired kid loves caffeine.
Mother, here. I give you the total of my life:
one broken condom. Two rotten apples that I threw
at the bedroom window of my first ex-boyfriend
because we were out of eggs. The three bobby pins
that the second one returned to me
from underneath his covers. The drunk texts I sent
because I was too upset to handle being sober.
Mother, I will not be like you.
When I find the right one,
I will keep him.