by Pichchenda Bao

I’m not raising my sons to be men.
Their futures are inscrutable.

Can this be a compliment?
When it's specific to women,

and our need to be needed
in a world of disposable bodies.

If we’re honest, we, good mothers,
are flickering lenticulars.

Depending on your angle,
monsters or care incarnate.

My sons and I play a game.
I tell them:

I love you more than all the leaves on all the trees in all the forests,
and they respond,

I love you more than all the leaves on all the trees in all the forests
Plus! One!

There we go. On and on. To all the stars. Riding every drop of rain,
accounting each particle of dirt, every trace of matter.

They claim every shifting cloud, every single hair.
I respond with every dissipating wave of sound and every circulating breath.

We race along the number line forward and back.
Infinity becoming a ball we bounce across every boundary.

We take the measure of every little thing in the universe
we can think of, and then sometimes,

they turn and ask me,
Are you happy, or are you mad?

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Pichchenda Bao is a Cambodian American poet and writer. Her work has been featured in numerous publications, exhibitions, and events. She is co-editor, with Nicole Callihan and Jennifer Franklin, of the poetry anthology, Braving the Body (Harbor Editions). She has received fellowships and support from Aspen Words, Kundiman, Bethany Arts Community, and Queens Council on the Arts. She lives, writes and raises her three kids in New York City. More at pichchendabao.com.