You once said, “A woman must
have money and room of her own
to write fiction.

It’s a good thing I have no desire
to write fiction, to weave worlds
and make-believe into such a concrete thing
as a novel or short story. 

There is no quiet in our little house
and I must pluck the words from the air,
between making sure everyone brushes
everything that needs brushed, my eight-to-five
that pays the bills, keeping everyone clean
and healthy, and doctors appointments
that are always a day-long slog.

The phrase will bubble out of my oldest’s mouth
or drift down the hall to simmer,
to shimmer, in that shabby corner of my brain
reserved for self-indulgence,

and, later, with my hands in dough or folding laundry
or wiping another poopy butt who’s owner
hasn’t mastered it yet,
a poem will take shape, slowly blooming lines
and unfurling its stanzas that I must remember
until the chaos slows its swirl
and I can pick up a pen.

Don’t get me wrong, Virginia, I’m not saying
a woman shouldn’t have money 
and a room of her own. I can imagine
it makes the whole process of world weaving
easier, less rushed and harried. 

What I am saying, though, is that simmering
snippets of conversation, distilling the marrow
of joy and pain into words on a page
is magic afforded to everyone, 

regardless of money or a room of their own.