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.