so instead I wish to wake up
before they were born,
back into my ignorance,
back into my desire for them.
This tiny want that grew
in my body, like a thread
spinning and spinning,
all iridescent cream and blood.
I would hold my belly
and not know my own flesh
becoming theirs,
a smile for the songs I hummed,
my foot tapping away.
Not my fists on the kitchen
counter, startling fright
into their eyes,
my wild hair and panting
so close to their faces.
I thought my love for them
would keep me calm,
would overpower me
and I would never bend over
the sink after I had put
them to bed, running hot tap
over my hands,
how it lays just under
my skin, the slap,
the bruise.
I have to shove
them under their blankets,
hide them from me,
shut their door,
cover my sobs in water,
burning and burning,
and try to do it,
wish them gone,
seared out of me,
hunched over the dirty dishes,
holding on to the faucet
for strength,
dragged behind my decision
to love,
kicking and screaming.
DeAnna Jones grew up in the Philippine Islands as the daughter of missionaries. She taught secondary level English and Language Arts for nine years. She was the Writing Consultant for the Carrollton Farmers-Branch ISD and now privately runs outside writing workshops for those interested in finding their voice and being part of a writing collective. Her work has appeared in IIlya's Honey, Spillway, Rattle, Descant, Literary Mama, and others. She currently lives in Frisco, Texas with her husband and two sons, Zachariah and Connor.
