2 May 2008 | Vol. 8, No. 1

Desperate Mothers Are an Easy Lay

by FARRAH FIELD

They usually treated Detective Summers as though he were brave

because spending time with him would bring their children back.

Summers approaches some women by what they're willing to do

or outdo. They believe it themselves, a freedom with bunions.

It's easy to use someone's body.

Speak with bait or don't speak.

During the time of hysteria, women were brought down manually.

Two people lying naked together could bring a case to a guessing point.

Both people are thoughtful because they want justice.

Women and men—they're funny words to say, as if they were the same,

as if knowing a few were knowing the whole.

Detective Summers infrequently recalls the mothers

because they were like pulling a hangnail

and watching the blood rush back and forth underneath

until it pops up to drown the tear.

A habit of bodies is like lighting a stick on fire and breathing.

All they remember of him is their returned children.

Under our fresh outfits, we're variations of pirates at best.

Someone isn't greeting him with tears,

won't reveal her children's names, nor will she allow him inside.

He doesn't regard her as a mother of four girls.

They visit his house, decorate his desk with chalk drawings,

leave letters with leaky ink on receipt backs.

He lifted a print on a wooden spoon. The youngest must've cooked.

Something tells him he is about to have a family.

Who's running this case here?

Regarding their advice, he called their teacher.

She only spoke briefly. She's one of those women

who are afraid to act upon her passions.

Or maybe she's hiding something. The Detective can't tell anymore.