When You Leave Your Children

 

Does your head make
your heart pretend it’s just
for a moment?
A day?
A week?
How do you convince
yourself to turn
away from their  
little eyes?
How many days
slip away
under the freedom
from their gaze,
their sticky little fingers,
their constant needing,
their whining,
and fighting?
How do those days
turn into years and what
measures of which substances
does it take to convince
yourself that those years
were stolen from you?
How many recovery groups
turn into seesaws
of guilt and pride?
How many times
do you have to tell strangers
the few tales you own
of the short time
before you left them?
How do you let those stories
become the proof you need
to show you were once a mother?