When the Lit Mag Rejects Another Poem About Motherhood,

my uterus folds into a gun— 
although, I've never carried 
one. I don’t even like to say the word around our daughter
who grew toes in there. Instead, 
we say pun when we chat 
about the news at dinner. But they're everywhere, 
puns. At the store, a small 
boy with puns for hands 
shouts gotcha, gotcha, gotcha down an aisle of hula hoops, 
bubbles, floaties, 
and water puns. 
At the checkout, women's bodies on health magazines are covered 
by plastic panels, 
but puns, big ones, 
are on full display by the candy and gum. We pass billboards 
for The Pun Show on the way 
home and a line of protestors 
that wraps around the women's center. “Nothing is easy about motherhood," 
is written on a sign in all caps
over a heartline zigzagging 
red over a shouting mouth. I turn up the volume and a bird sings 
pío, pío, pío in Spanish. 
Fear laps at me
like the shoreline, slowly eating this state that’s shaped like a pun. 
Nothing is easy 
about motherhood,
but it is worthy of poems, magazines, billboards, and songs, so 
when I pull into the driveway,  
I decide to stick to my puns
and send out another mother poem tomorrow. For now, we unload 
groceries and make plans 
to go to a concert—our first 
big one since becoming parents. Neither of us says the what if 
we’re both thinking. 
Piu, piu, piu, 
our daughter hops on the sofa. Piu, piu, piu. Piu, piu, piu. 
Piu, piu, piu.