Erin O'Regan White

It was too much for one woman, too much, too much.

— Virginia Woolf

I remember my mother saying: children

will make a liar of you. Honest to god,

that’s true. Children and broken pipes and 

vomit on the kitchen floor: 

                                        these are not lies. 

Other not-lies include the broken glass that rattles 

in the car door and another bounced check 

and the dog’s cremated remains. All no more 

honest than truths concealed: 

                                    Desire burns 

beneath a cool gloss and some loads

can’t be borne alone. Some fictions

I can’t live without: 

                           that one woman alone 

can staunch a leak, soothe a belly, 

resist shimmering apart into a thousand

thousand pieces. 

                              In the quiet after stories,

is it the mother or the poet who cradles 

the dead wasp, admires the copper sheen 

of its wings, throws it in the garbage 

without mourning?