Women don’t have pockets to carry the things we need to carry so we carry them in our bodies until they become a part of us. No nightstand tray, sling bag full of bad experiences, memories of our mothers. We carry her too, in our bellies that wax and wane like moons puffed up with blood and feelings, the throb of happenings, the headache of things we’d rather forget but cannot, tucked behind our tired eyes, icepicks of regret in our temples. Give us pockets, big ones with flaps and buttons to hold things in, let them bulge from our hips, expand our chests. Let us take them off at the ends of hard days, lie them across the bench at the foot of our made beds. Let us lie down under popcorn ceilings and sleep without dreaming.