Feast of the Mommy-Shamers

There are vultures lurking
under our ficus tree.
Hunchbacked
and bulbous—
beady eyes
glare at me. Disguised
in crimson sundresses
and ombréd hair,
their gaudy shades
of gold, glint
in hot metallic.

I can't scrub away
the shadows.
My stench of wound
and shine of scar
is pink and fresh.
The committee
waits with painted lip
and hooked beak.
Feathered egos
plunge bald heads
neck-deep to gorge
on insecurity.