Motherhood

They come for candy floss fluffing
from foiled waterpipes—humans
in suits and helmets, like they’re
astronauts & I’m the moon,

wombing my room with plastic
and a sign: hazmat. A sweet
name, skipping. Dinnertime!
The men take the fluff, the sign,

& Hazmat off in their truck
pregnant with incident control. I forget to swallow
two, three days in a row

my row of sweet pink tabs
till I see a mom remember
on TV her girl lost to a clot
incidented by the candy pill.

Hazmat’s eyes glow pink,
lean right. Hazmat dreams
with knives, breathes over.
Hazmat, my first and fifth.

Come, solutions of centuries:
apples, bathtubs, magic wells.
Breakdowns. Recalls. This time
the cleaners come with grins.