On Canada Day, I try to do six things at once. Like always.
pack a bag
write a list
pack another bag
make a call
make the snacks
Something comes over me, as it sometimes does,
and the only one thing I want to do, of all the things,
is touch myself
Close the curtains
shut the door
the kids are home –
one down the hall, watching TV
the other downstairs, in and out of the house
climbing the tree in the front yard, pitting cherries
eating cherries, making a mess with my name on it
It’s a command to myself:
lift your dress
leave your underwear on
my hand slips in, there’s just something about that, keeping the underwear on
I fall back
onto the pillow of touch I made for myself
close my eyes
sink in
The fireworks are starting up at the park
bang bang ba-bang-bang
“MAMA!” my son calls from down the hall
“What!!” sharply
“Can you make me a hot dog?”
“In ten minutes!”
Back to the pillow, back to touch
mind going
fantasy
choose one
choose a good one
have it include love
Now I hear the daughter, coming upstairs
I pull my dress down, she is bound to walk into the room
her feet come near the door but head up to her room instead
“MAMA!” calls the son, “Is my hot dog ready?”
“Five minutes!!” I bark back
The fireworks outside
bang bang ba-bang-bang
Don’t lose this moment:
everytime now, I learn something new about my body
my body loves this
back I go, into the waves
deepening and opening
fireworks
bang bang ba-bang-bang
“MAMA! Is my hot dog ready?”
“NO”
And then I come, with the fireworks
quiet and deep
another tiny earthquake in this body, becoming itself
This is how a woman who is also a mother
pleasures herself