Mom Pooch
Mom pooch, Mom pooch
You are my new belly,
Proof that I did something amazing!
Grew my boy in my tummy
But mom pooch, mom pooch
You must go away
Let’s do it, we can do,
Instagram says 6:30 am Pilates is the way
Ok, let me try, I confirm Apple pay
Mom pooch, mom pooch
Jesus, what the actual fuck?
I’m supposed to do laundry and bedtime,
night feedings and pump
Then measure formula
when nothing comes out?
Plus pack breakfast and lunches and
daycare dropoff and then
Work for pay and
work out?
Don’t even think about
finding time to fuck.
Mom pooch, mom pooch
My boy wants to play
He hands me a book, we sing
Down by the Bay.
He settles into my lap with his
favorite Hulk lovey,
“Hulk smash!” I grumble and he shrieks,
Joy unbridled.
Mom pooch, mom pooch
There you are, here to stay
Who really needs to be a size 8 ever again, anyway?
I hold you like the baby growing days
a time that feels like it’s slipping from memory.
My husband still squeezes me close,
We’re not young but still sexy.
Frozen Yogurt Machine
Here we are again,
at the changing table
at 4am, your cute
tushie sounding alarms.
I’m your real-life Diaper Genie,
your fresh diappy wish is my command.
I got this, no need to wake up
your dad, mama is a strong independ-
Oh fuck, literal
holy shit.
Are you still pooping?
Into my hand?
The peepee tent doesn’t protect
against shit in your hand.
Your butt is a froyo machine
and I am the cup.
To quote Baby Mama,
“chocolate or poop?”
Definitely poop, no lick test required.
Now, scream like hell for your dad.
For Trayvon, On His 31st Birthday
My sweet boy, he’s also
Brown, with wide
Brown eyes, and
Four whole teeth, which
he flashes with every full
belly giggle and grin and
one day, soon he’ll
move, from a roll
to a crawl
to standing tall
to walking strong,
cozy in
his hoodie,
his body,
his dreams
to fly, and I pray
the day he goes for
Skittles, a tea,
the guns are
museum relics, caged
behind glass, the
only shots fired
at hoops, sent up
in long arcs at
the final buzzer
And as the evening rain
arrives sooner than predicted,
my boy’s gray hoodie no
defense against the weather,
the hand of a neighbor
extends an umbrella
and he ambles down
our street alone, asking
what’s for dinner
as he closes
the front door
Sara Sands Francis is a creative nonfiction writer and poet. Her work has been published in American Chordata, Arkansas Review: A Journal of Delta Studies, Choeofpleirn Press, and The Merrimack Review. She lives in Houston with her husband and son, where she leads research and evaluation at a nonprofit focused on ensuring every child, in every neighborhood, has access to a high-quality education. She holds a Ph.D. in Politics & Education from Teachers College, Columbia University, an M.Phil in Education from the University of Cambridge, and a B.A. in English and Political Economy from Tulane University.
