Too much wine means two children is too much,
for the two versions of me I’m exhausted from
trying to reconcile.
My daughter crackles paper.
My son thinks of the endless possibilities of a new toy.
And me, I press my head against the spindles of our staircase.
I drank too much wine, trying to imagine
my husband and I are not splintering.
I lift my eyes and focus on one thing:
there is a circle of light above my head.
My son wants to read books;
four books—he is four; four is a perfect square;
four is more words than I can consciously
string together for fear I’d split infinitives.
But he hasn’t brushed his teeth well enough.
Consciously drunk, I know I should not
be a parent now, force myself to care
for someone more than I am able
to care for myself.
My son doesn’t notice a difference in my voice tonight;
have I not been myself these past four years?
The light above me is constant while other things are
blurred, halves of themselves; is this part of me?
I take a moment to regret
having too much, dividing myself,
edging toward oblivion.
“Read, Mommy,” my son says, and my head splits in two.