Supermarket Lingerie

I’ve crossed many lines: I own
a minivan; I say, “Wait till your father gets home.”
We attended, as a family, the opening of a Burger King,
sat in a plastic booth eating hot, salty french fries,
our offspring wearing cardboard crowns.
But I never thought I’d buy a nightgown at the supermarket.
It’s long and black and silky with stretchy lace; it
can’t help but be fashionable. It’s not its fault
it was next to the lettuce and toothpaste.
I’m frightened, though, because this means anything
is possible.
My boys could join the Army.
I could die before I have grandchildren.
I might never ever have a paying job again.
Freak accidents could await us all.
This nightgown has powers.
I will wear it, feel its seductive length
around my ankles, let it swoosh when I walk at 3 a.m. from child’s room
to child’s room to look at their sleeping faces,
their snowflake eyelashes,
their mouths open, throwing their gentle breath out to me,
saying, Yes Mommy, happiness can be found at the supermarket,
pushing questioning children, buying pajamas and bread,
letting us choose a sugary cereal once in a while.