Shoebox

i am saving all of the shouting
i am not shouting, i am stuffing
it into a shoebox
i keep the shoebox under my bed

goddammit i want my breasts back
i fed you two hours ago
i fed you two hours ago
i just fed you two hours ago
i fed you two fucking hours ago
i am tired of being hungry every two hours

a bowl of oatmeal
a handful of granola
half a cookie
another half a cookie
a peach
another peach
a handful of granola
the leftover beans, salad, a cookie
an apple
another damn cookie

it's only an hour to dinner and i
am so damn tired of being hungry

and tired,
if you would take a nap i would
take a nap
i would like
not to have to choose
between exercising or writing or taking a shower
or just working a goddam crossword puzzle

i have never loved anything 
as much as your sweet face sleeping

i am saving up this box,
under my bed,
i need more than a shoebox,
i'm buying a filebox,
maybe a refrigerator box

every time i want to snap
i look at your sweet fussy face all
screwed up and unhappy
and somehow i'm kissing
your toes, your fat cheeks that smell 
always, like sour cheese
the fuzzy duckfeathers on your round head --

i'm telling you that box is going to fill up so fast
pretty soon i'll have enough to sew up 
all of those un-shouts and -slaps into one great big blue
and scarlet hot-air balloon
and i will be the world's first mother
to actually fly away to Australia

(probably not the first)

i might spend a whole day
three hours anyway
or at least an hour
before i have to come back
and kiss my baby