The Mermaid Who Wants to Play House Finds Only Wrecked Ships to Live In

I could never decide between Pegasus or Unicorn

delicate parts snapping off My Little Ponies,

wings gone soggy in the tub.

In your bathroom, I see the ovulation stick

tucked into the tissue box,

the way you might hide an egg on Easter.

I learn from mommy blogs

I am a POAS addict,

pissing on sticks

twice a month

until I turn up two lines instead of one.

When I have the child you couldn’t, you stop calling for brunch

but I can’t mimosa anyway.

I am supposed to feel sorry for you

and for the one who had the abortion

then changed her mind

three years later, after the would-be father left

and she had nothing but a sweater with his university’s name

fading across the chest.

This is my novena to your unkempt womb.

EHO rental. Squatters welcome.

I didn’t understand that want, that selfish pull until I saw it there

the white stick that will never yield pink or blue

while inside my daughter kicked

and fisted restless fits against my bones.

Did you know that when my daughter wants to nurse

and I’m not home, my husband

puts the baby’s mouth on his nose?

That’s my girl,

beating her face against the underside of a boat

gumming for air and for milk and getting nothing.