Just two weeks. I stand here before you. In my mother's hand me downs. In this world where mothers must work like they don't have children and parent like they don't have jobs. Keeping households running and bills paid. While their hearts run around outside their bodies on tiny little legs that don't yet know where the wolves are but don't you dare overmother them or undermother them or get anything wrong while treading laundry and kung-fu in the kitchen and oh yeah if you could just save the world from nuclear armageddon and environmental collapse when you get a minute, when you get a minute, when you get a minute, that'd be great. I stand here before you. In my mother's hand me downs. With my mother's strangled voice and my mother's pine-soul hands and my mother's weeping back and my mother's feral chores and my mother's loving patience and my mother's gritted teeth and my mother's inner beauty that you never get to see. Her inner world of unheard symphonies and unpainted art and oceans of sleeping babies neatly stuffed into a housecoat drowned out by a fucking Helen Reddy song. I stand here before you in my mother's hand me downs, glaring with cross hair eyes at the eel-faced manipulators who blacken the children's sky, who poison my children's water, who microplastic my children's blood, who scorch my children's earth to turn billionaires into trillions of vowing eyes see you. I will stop you right after this dentist appointment, right after this assignment, right after these taxes, right after this to-do list, I will be ready to stop you like in two more weeks, maybe, or maybe two weeks after that. I stand here before you in my mother's hand me downs with my mother's intuition to eyes in the back of her head. I can see what you are doing, but my many eyes can only glance before more dishes pile up before the to-do list unfurls. I'll get to it, I'll get to you, I will stop you, I will, I see what you are doing. But I just need to take the kids to daycare and make the sandwiches first and stop off on the way to work for a part to fix the aircon before the summer comes, before the heat you stoked with dinosaur bones and canary island loopholes and the infantile ambitions of impotent men, hits our little rental that I'm so grateful to have, so grateful, on my hands and knees grateful, your cock in my mouth grateful, please don't kick us out, we love you we do, like a solo wind storm, barbequeing my children in this tent made of weather boards like a tiny funeral pyre for bad women, naughty witchers, ladies flying solo who need to be put in their place.