by Cynthia Marie Hoffman

I threw my back out reaching for the knife
to cut the waffles for my kid
before school. My kid’s a teen already
but still scared of the closet. I’m not
one to talk. I scramble up the stairs at night
when the living room goes dark. What kind of mother
would I be if I didn’t hold on
to the things that make my kid a kid? I let go
of my own dreams, settled for the middle
of the choir, though I wanted
to be a rock star. Did you know
some butterflies have air in the veins in their wings?
My kid learned that in seventh grade,
along with some introductory Spanish.
I’ve been to Spain, where I could understand
everything said to me
but couldn’t form a sentence of my own
out of nothing. Each night I open the door
to affirm the composition of the closet—
more empty space than axe murderer.
Could I fight off an axe with this
kitchen injury and my bad wrist from
lugging the laundry? My idol is a glam
rocker in makeup and platform heels. He reminds me
I’d wanted to live a creative life. These days,
why bother with lipstick? I pour syrup on the same
breakfast my kid has eaten since preschool. My brain
is air. The heaviest thing in my body is my heart.
At a party years ago, I sang one song with a band
and they rushed the bridge into the final verse. I didn’t even
get to sing all the words I knew. Each night, I tuck my kid
in bed though tucking isn’t welcomed anymore. I’m reprimanded
for making sure the quilt is pressed between the mattress
and the wall. But if I let the cold get in, then tell me
what kind of mother would I be?

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Cynthia Marie Hoffman is the author of four collections of poetry, most recently the OCD memoir in prose poems, Exploding Head. She is the recipient of fellowships from the Wisconsin Institute for Creative Writing, Civitella Ranieri Foundation, and the Wisconsin Arts Board. She has essays in TIME, The Sun, Lit Hub, and elsewhere, and poems in Electric Literature, The Believer, The Los Angeles Review, and elsewhere. Cynthia lives in Madison, WI. See cynthiamariehoffman.com.