The Artist as a Young Mother

I sit on the floor.

She sits on me
leaning
rolling
climbing
against my legs, my chest, my life.

Never close enough.

I dream of
the art I will do
the book I will write
the play I will perform
the garden I will plant

While I sit on the floor
and do
nothing
but be the crash pad
for 20 pounds of epic life,

The only art that matters.

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