My Womb Demands a Vacation

I walk in on her packing a small carry-on, all
she needs for a quick getaway. She pulls t-shirts,
travel-size toiletries, her favorite blood red
espadrilles from open drawers; organization
has never been her strength. Mumbles about
burnout, about how I’ve asked too much of her
the last couple of years. I don’t try to
negotiate. I’ve seen her this way before:
hysterical, closed off. Last time, she brought me
a small cactus keychain, told me to go fuck
myself with it. It’s still in the center console
with the loose change. Seeing it there reminds
me of warmth. Last week, the cactus’ plastic
took root and grew needles through the sunroof.
I hope she’ll remember me despite the smooth
sand of a beach, that she’ll return when
the edge of living wears off.


I assumed an F was involved.