my three daughters
are forming &

they watch.

I have grown teeth inside me,
spun feeding cords from my own

blood &

though each month I’ll stain your sheets
I will not carry your child.

I’ll choke

your vacuum on plastic gems fallen
from the birthday card

I make you—

there will be glitter.

I leave

keys, water bottles, doors unlocked,
gray rolls of skin in the tub, a man

to whom I made vows,

where I am not loved—

You cook. I’ll set our table.