Caitlin Grace McDonnell
BAD MOMS
I always cry on airplanes.
Thought it was the movies.
But when I cried at Bad Moms,
I wondered if it was the booze.
Tiny bottle of Titos and Mr.&
Mrs. T. Or maybe it was being
up above my life, so that I could
see its topographies, the patterns
like farm circles, slopes and narrative
arcs. Or was it the turning over
of my fate to a stranger I couldn’t
see, closed behind a locked metal
door, whose voice may well be a lie.
I didn’t mind until I became a mom.
My death before that just a dramatic exit
that would make my exes cry
with satisfying anguish and regret.
Turns out its science. Something
about altitude and oxygen. The same
reason we crave tomato juice. But really,
those moms were tired. They wanted
to love their kids and love their lives, too.
Clinking glasses, dishes in the sink.
Down there on that silly earth.
Where we’re all doing our best.
Originally published in MER 23
Caitlin Grace McDonnell divides her time between a cabin in the woods and NYC. A former New York Times Poetry and Fine Arts Work Center fellow, she has published poems and essays widely, including a chapbook, Dreaming the Tree (2003) and two books of poems, Looking for Small Animals (2012) and Pandemic City (2021). She lives with her daughter and teaches writing for CUNY.