Octomom
I wonder how Octomom feels
when she looks at each
of her wriggling octochildren
their young faces deepening
in character, their movements
turning into the patterns
that define their personalities.
Their instinctive reactions.
Their wants. Their fears.
Their hiding places.
Their strategic means to their desires;
their desires.
I wonder what it is like
to live in a house
raising 8 little mirrors.
I wonder who I would secretly favor.
I wonder who would send me
into rages beyond all reason.
I wonder who would occasionally sleep in my bed
till she was thirteen.
I wonder who would disappear
to his room for five years
leaving me to speculate about his happiness,
his struggles, his entire world.
I hope I would be able to hold each one
without shame. Leave copies
of his favorite books by his door.
Rub her back until she falls asleep.