I write with one hand, my arms filled up with a child who holds my hair like a rope.
There’s no room for coffee and hardly time for writing so I slam my fingers on the keys with desperation.
The baby will be awake soon and there’s juice to pour but I can’t stop. I sacrifice dust bunnies for the craft, and it’s a pleasant exchange until company comes.
I write in the minivan as I drive by orange earth and olive trees. I decide they’re tied together by dusty trunks and as I watch the silver leaves touch the sunset I swoon at the poetry of it all.
I write Sesame Street poems.
I write with one hand.
Yesterday Maurice Sendak died and I cried. I loved his art and his words. I was listening to an interview with him on NPR and he declared he was glad he never had children, he never wanted them, because his art required selfishness.
I don’t want my art to be selfish. I don’t want it to stink, but if I have to chose between the two…