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—
always,
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,
tables
where I am not loved—
You cook. I’ll set our table.