poem: stay-at-home woman

do you remember the red telephone,
sitting like a silent cat,
renovating the hall with its small
plastic face?

i watched you leave,
the first day,
and then i called my mother.

the baby was twisting like
an almond, a sliver
in my ocean-split stomach;
i put my hands over my mouth
so she wouldn’t hear
my crying.

mother, i said—
my life is like a fruit
split open. and long-distance,
she could hear the static
but not taste the sweet.

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