I sit in a quiet room on a balmy afternoon,
and wonder if the fly in the corner will find its way out of the window.
Or, will it always buzz in the background?

My thoughts drift to Anne Sexton and to me as a girl.
I used to write poems in my sleep, stretching them out through the deepest corners of the night.
They would hang from my tongue like sweet liquorice
and then disappear.

I never wanted to be a mother, but now I wonder if I will be everything that my son needs.
Should I write him poems too, so that he understands why sometimes I am quiet?