Tandem Voices Trill for Me

Their liquid tones are elastic, pulsing 
arteries bleeding 
mommy mommy mommy mommy.
The fabric of my patience has worn 

threadbare 
like the ruched maternity clothing
I wear two years after the last child 
came screeching from my womb.  

Stretched repeatedly over fattened 
curves
of multiplying flesh and bone 
the garments still have more life in them

than my flaccid belly
and breasts
which gravity and stark utility now render
in pendulous lines. The baby whines.

Peanut butter and toast crumbs
and mucus
smear small hands and upturned faces.
I suck on a sigh

as high tides of cortisol and adrenaline 
surge through blue-red waterways,
mapping my escape 
from the circuitous assault of butter round

juggernauts 
that pluck the frayed strings of a shoddy 
nervous system. I am a second-hand

kiddie harp, cherrywood tarnished 
with elven fingerprints
joinery loose from incompetent handling.