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February 26, 2016 Poetry

The Butcher

Teresa Plana

The Butcher photo


Once a year I decide
I don't love you. It's

today. Watch me
not make you breakfast.

The child is only
this flesh I grew

and you tore 
out of me.

Now it stirs in the crib,
leaking, while I half-

pack you a suitcase
and Facebook-message ex-lovers.

When you come home   /   I will not be waiting up
but not sleeping   /   and you will get into bed

and I will look at your arm   /   sprawled across my chest
and I will bite down   /   on twelve pounds of muscle and fat

and this meat will feed me
three hundred and sixty four days.



image: Tara Wray